How Not To Be Boring
by fourleggedfish
Summary: House is bored, and Wilson is tired of being labeled the boring half of the friendship...so he calls House on a dare. And then stuff ensues. House/Wilson, EXPLICIT SLASH/NC-17! Now rendered AU; pretty much disregards everything starting with "Softer Side"
1. Chapter 1

They weren't even drunk. Wilson wished they were, but no; he had insisted that House shouldn't be drinking since he'd been doing far too much of that lately, so they were sitting on House's sofa with cans of Coke, half asleep and watching soft core porn. It wasn't even very interesting porn. In fact, Wilson would have preferred to just go to sleep, sans happy ending; it was that bad.

Wilson rolled his head along the back of the couch to find House nodding off, his coke in imminent danger of spilling out of his loosely clasped hand. "House… Let's just call it a night."

"Oh, please. It's not that bad." House shifted further upright and made a point of keeping his eyes open for a few seconds.

"Give it up. _I_ could get you off faster at this rate."

The moment Wilson said it, he should have known he was in trouble. House perked up and gave him a sidelong look. "Is that an offer? We talking blowjob, or something more creative?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I'm not giving you a blow job."

"Sounded like some sort of challenge," House pressed. He sat up all the way and hit the power button on the remote, plunging the room into relative silence. "How do you know you could get me off at all?"

"Anyone could get you off," Wilson muttered as he climbed to his feet and stretched. "Not like you could afford to be picky anyway."

House smirked and reclined lazily in the corner of the couch. "Oh, I'm plenty picky. I won't let just any hooker in here."

"No, you've got to be selective about the sex you pay for." Wilson shuffled around the couch, collecting pop cans and pizza-related trash on the way. "It's the free stuff you can't get."

"I wouldn't call you free," House replied. "In fact, if you weren't so well-circulated already, I bet you could make good money – "

"I'm not even slightly flattered by that," Wilson interrupted.

House shrugged. "Not my fault you've slept with half of Princeton. Mileage like that brings the value down, you know."

Wilson rolled his eyes in irritation, but he took House's kidding in stride, as always.

"I don't think you have it in you," House called as Wilson dumped an armload into the garbage can in the kitchen. "You're too much of a pretty boy. Bet you couldn't suck cock if you tried."

"Wow, you make it sound so tempting." Wilson padded back in and stood near the doorway with his hands on his hips. "And not that it matters, but I'm not squeamish. How hard could it be to give somebody a blow job?"

"Fine," House replied, then settled back in a decidedly lurid pose. "Prove it."

Wilson snorted and made for the bathroom. "I'm not giving you a blow job."

"I'll give _you_ one," House called after him.

"No." Wilson stood in front of the bathroom mirror and kicked himself for starting the conversation.

"What kind of man turns down a blowjob?"

Great. House had followed him all the way to the bathroom. "The kind who's sober, and sleeping on his stoned best friend's couch."

"Look." House pulled his pills out and set the bottle on the sink next to Wilson's hand. "I haven't had one since eight. Not stoned."

Wilson glared at the bottle for a second and then turned to regard House's lean frame poised in the doorway. "I don't believe it. You _want_ me to blow you."

House shrugged. "The movie sucked. Your offer was _way_ more interesting."

"That wasn't an offer." Wilson grabbed the pills and thrust them into House's hand. "It was an observation. Take a handful of these and go away."

"Wuss." House pushed off the doorjamb and disappeared into the living room.

Wilson used the toilet and washed his hands, then stomped down the hall to find House sprawled out on the couch. "Go to bed. I'm sleeping here."

"No way. We're not finished yet." House sat up on his elbows. "I bet you couldn't do it. I bet you'd chicken out."

"We're not betting." Wilson searched the floor for his shoes, resigned to going home if he expected to get any rest tonight. Why couldn't House just _say_ 'Please go home, Jimmy. I don't feel like company in the morning.'

"Okay then. I dare you." House just laid there when Wilson looked at him, a smug smile written all over his face.

Wilson made a face that fell somewhere between amused and irritated. "Like you'd let me anywhere near you with your pants down – you won't even use the urinal right next to me. You're bluffing."

"Try me." House shifted again on the couch.

Wilson scoffed and resumed looking for his shoes.

"Aw. Wittle Jimmy has stage fright? Uncle Greg could make it better."

"I don't have stage fright, and you're just creepy." Wilson stopped near the door. "What did you do with my shoes?"

House shrugged, not the least bit innocent. "Triple dog dare – only a pussy would back out now. And I stole them to add to my secret collection."

"You're something else, you know that?" Wilson tromped back across the room and stood over House with his hands on his hips. "Give me back my shoes."

"Hey, I dared you," House replied. "A guy has to keep his reputation, you know. It would be irresponsible of me to let you leave now; I would be forced to tell everyone what a shameless pussy you are."

"I hardly think people would blame me for turning down the opportunity to play with your unmentionables. Shoes. Now."

House leaned back again and laced his fingers across his belly. "Pussy," he sang, his eyes trained on the ceiling.

"I am not – "

"Here, pussy pussy."

"Oh, grow up."

"I'm not the one blushing," House pointed out.

And for some reason, Wilson snapped. "You know what? Fine." If House wanted to play this sort of game _again_, Wilson was going to win for once. "I call your bluff. Sit up."

House blinked at him a few times but didn't move. "Seriously?"

"You made the dare. Sit up." He waited expectantly with his hands on his hips. "Or you can stay there." Wilson climbed onto the couch and kneed his way between House's legs, shoving the bad one off to rest on the floor.

"You're trying to freak me out," House guessed, though he didn't move to stop Wilson. "Get me to call it off so you can save face."

"Are you folding?"

"No." House wiggled back a bit but remained defiant. "I still don't think you have it in you."

"Then the dare stands." Wilson reached forward and grabbed House's belt.

House jumped at that and covered Wilson's hand with his own. "You're serious." He sounded surprised.

A tiny bit of apprehension gripped Wilson's abdomen but he proceeded to yank House's belt open anyway. "Aren't you?"

"Well, yeah, but…"

"So the dare stands." Wilson batted House's hand out of the way, pleased with the slightly shell-shocked expression on the man's face. Then he looked down and focused on the task at hand, wondering how, exactly, he intended to pull this off. Or if. House could still back out – Wilson expected him to, as a matter of fact. One thing Wilson knew for sure was that he refused to stand down for once. He was tired of being labeled the weak and unexciting half of this friendship. Wilson could be spontaneous too.

"Are you planning to will me all the way through the process, or were you going to touch it?" House sounded smug again, the bastard.

Wilson glared at him and unbuttoned his jeans, then tugged on the zipper. If House intended to stop him, now was the time. Now. Any second now. A soft breath came from House's quarter and Wilson glanced up. House was just staring at him, guarded and surprised. Okay…he wasn't ending it. Shit. Wilson looked down again and discovered his hands resting over folds of denim. Okay, fine. He hooked his fingers over the waist band of House's jeans and dragged them down a bit, then reached for the boxers. House lifted just enough to make it easy for Wilson, and Wilson studiously refrained from looking as he pulled the cotton down far enough to leave House hanging out in the open, but not far enough to expose the scar.

Then Wilson looked at it. Then he met House's wide eyes, and then he looked at it again. House wasn't circumcised. He knew that already, but seeing it like this… "Um."

"Seriously, I didn't think you'd even get this far. So, you're not a complete pussy…just a bit of a 'fraidy cat." That was House, trying to be helpful.

"Not backing out," Wilson snapped. He wondered if it meant anything that House was completely flaccid, but decided that the oddness of the situation accounted for it. Any man who's had his pants ripped off would be less than limp. He reached a tentative hand out to touch it, as if he'd never seen a penis before – as if he didn't have one of his own, for that matter. This shouldn't be hard…no pun intended. Wilson knew how to handle one of these things. He couldn't help the weirdness, though, and he just sort of poked it. It jiggled.

"Okay."

Wilson looked up and met a slightly panicky version of House. That was a new one.

"I can fold now. It's cool."

Wilson's brows drew down. "Why would you fold _now_?"

House licked his lips and shifted uncomfortably, which had the inadvertent side effect of drawing Wilson's eyes back down to his completely exposed genitals. "Because you're not doing anything."

Wilson pondered that, plus the way House wouldn't make eye contact, and then narrowed his eyes in disbelief. "You're going to fold because you're afraid you've ruined the friendship?"

"I didn't ruin anything. I just can't help noticing that you're – hey, knock it off!"

Wilson paused in amusement with his head hovering over House's crotch. "Thought you wanted a blow job?" His breath bathed House's genitals in warm, moist air, and Wilson noted the fine shiver that this produced.

"Yeah, you've made your point." House might have been on the verge of hyperventilating, but Wilson was too busy not laughing to be sure. House's discomfiture just made this ten times easier for him. "You're not squeamish, you're not a pussy – you can stop now." House scooted back on the cushions, but Wilson had already seen the reaction engendered by his proximity and his breath. _Now_ it was a challenge.

"No way." Wilson grabbed at House's hips and pressed him into the cushions. "If I back out now, you'll still tease me. In fact, I wouldn't put it past you to tell half the hospital about it just to watch me explode. Stop squirming, you big baby."

House made a nonspecific, wordless denial, but stopped trying to worm his way out from under Wilson's hands. "Seriously. Not a word. You don't have to do that."

"Why are you freaking out? You started this." Wilson bent down, satisfied to see that House had already started to respond to the situation, and risked touching his lips to the skin at the base of House's penis.

"I dunno," House gasped. He tensed but remained in place as Wilson nibbled along his slowly thickening length. "Oh…kay."

Wilson smiled. If he had known how quickly this could discombobulate the great Gregory House, he would have tried it before now. "Relax," he mumbled into House's pubic hair. He tasted a hint of sweat and musk, but not much else. Then he withdrew a bit to rub his cheek – and his shadow of stubble – along House's inner thigh, as much as he could reach with House's jeans in the way. House parted his legs a little bit more, constrained by denim, and Wilson heard his breath hitch.

Wilson's vantage point allowed him to watch House's cock fill out, and he shifted forward to nose at it before he dipped his head and mouthed House's balls. Gently, he drew one into his mouth and worked his tongue around it, trying to duplicate some of the things that his various wives and girlfriends had done to him. House's explosive exhale signaled success, and he let the ball drop from his mouth so that he could suckle it instead. He wondered if he could leave a hickey in a place like that, and what House would say if he did.

Wilson treated the other testicle to the same teasing, then sat up so that he could slide into a better position, his knees squeaking on the leather cushion. He glanced up for good measure to find House's blackened eyes fixed on him, just staring, and then he lowered his head and latched his lips over the tip of House's cock.

"Hhhmmm…"

A soft thump drew Wilson's eyes up again; House had let his head fall back against the arm rest. Something about that pose finally touched Wilson. The way House was spread out before him, the way his breathing caused his entire body to expand and contract, the way his neck arched so that Wilson could count the ridges on his trachea… All of that and more stirred Wilson just enough that he noticed, that he felt the blood flow in his body shift. Wilson took the head of House's cock in his mouth again, ignoring the strange taste and the unfamiliarity of the act. He traced along the underside of House's length with his thumb, running along the throbbing vein, and watched House's adam's apple spasm as he swallowed.

Wilson directed his gaze downward again and took a moment to palm himself through his khakis while he sucked hard on House. Surely House couldn't blame him for getting something out of this too? What did he expect, after all? Touching himself simply increased the blood flow and Wilson felt himself grow light headed as the bulge under his hand firmed up and took shape. He puffed out an aroused breath, which ended up blowing under House's foreskin, completely unintentionally.

"_Oh_ god!" House clutched at the couch cushion and twitched as if barely preventing the impulse to thrust up into Wilson's mouth.

Wilson's eyes flickered north again, surprised. Just to experiment, he blew out another light puff of air. House's mouth opened, soundless, and his legs trembled on either side of Wilson. Cool. Wilson sealed his lips around House's tip, his bottom lip pressing the sweet spot just under the head, and happily blew out again. This time, though, he followed the air with his tongue, and teased his way to the slit.

House's respirations fell off pattern and his stomach muscles flexed. "Nngh…_fuck_, Wilson…ohhhh…" He whimpered when Wilson didn't let up, his fingernails dug into the couch, and then he couldn't stop himself from bucking.

A burst of bitterness hit Wilson's tongue and it took him a second to realize that it was Cowper's fluid. He drew back, taken completely off guard. Before he could think better of it, he exclaimed, "Ah… That's disgusting."

House lifted his head. "Like you don't secrete the same damn thing."

"I've never tasted it," Wilson retorted. He leaned to the side to snatch his coke can from the coffee table and downed a swig, swirling it around in his mouth before his swallowed. Then he repeated the cleansing.

House rolled his eyes and let his head fall back again. "Oh, please. Drama queen. You act like I tried to poison you."

Wilson shot him an irritated look. "Have _you_ ever tried it?" When House merely shrugged in dismissal, Wilson made a face at him and dipped his fingers in the milky fluid dripping in a thin line down House's erect penis. Before House could react, Wilson had smeared it all over House's lips. "There. Now tell me that's appetizing."

"You - !" House licked his lips on instinct and then pulled a face. "s'not that horrible."

Wilson's eyebrows shot up.

"Anyway, I don't what you're complaining about. I bet you taste just as bad."

The way House gestured at Wilson's tented pants made Wilson flush with arousal. He got defensive despite his better judgment. "Ten bucks says I taste better. I _eat_ better."

"You're on." House sat up as well as he could with his legs akimbo and Wilson planted between them. "Gimme." His hands were opening Wilson's pants before Wilson had a chance to process House's actions.

"Hey!" The protest was purely for Wilson's own peace of mind. He didn't mind being manhandled, so to speak. And he _definitely_ didn't mind when House pulled his boxers down over his cock, hooked the waistband under his balls, and grabbed his penis. Wilson grunted as House roughly stroked it, milking it. His hand found House's shoulder for support and he tried desperately not to embarrass himself. When House abruptly stopped, he groaned, but he didn't have a chance to protest beyond that. House's fingers gathered up beads of Wilson's precum, and then his fingers were in Wilson's mouth. Wilson balked, but then stopped to actually taste it. There was hardly any flavor at all. He grinned in triumph. "Let's see you make fun of my salads now!"

House glared at him, but didn't move to try it for himself. "Yeah, whatever. You have unfinished business."

Endorphins and hormones made Wilson bold. He certainly shouldn't have relished the thought of blowing House, but he did. In fact, it made his own hard-on throb with renewed vigor. He shoved House back, knocking the wind out of him, and plastered himself over House's body.

"Mmph!"

"You didn't taste it too," Wilson pointed out, his face an inch from House's, their breath mingling in Coke-flavored swirls. "I don't want you reneging on my ten bucks on a technicality."

House blinked. "Wilson… What are you doing?"

Wilson shrugged, but he could feel his cheeks pale. This was okay, right? After all, they were ripping at each other's clothes and playing with private parts. How could this be worse? Wilson forced some bravado into his voice, though he knew that House would pick up on his trepidation. "What? You'll let me put my mouth all over your cock, but nowhere else?"

If possible, House appeared more anxious right now than Wilson felt. "You…you want to…what, kiss me? Isn't that a little…you know…weird?"

It must have been the intimacy. Of course. Wilson mentally slapped himself. House hired people to play with his unmentionables – there was nothing personal about that. But actual feeling, real emotional reciprocity…he probably hadn't gotten _that_ since Stacy. "No," Wilson said, surprising even himself. "It's not weird. It's just a little bit overdue."

House merely stared, so Wilson closed the distance, ignoring House's body stiffening beneath him and the way he didn't really kiss back at first. They kept their eyes open, House's saucered as he probably tried to find the joke at his expense hidden inside the action. Wilson closed his eyes as if to surrender and snaked one hand around to cup the back of House's head. House made a low sound in the back of his throat, something needy that touched Wilson in places he had thought dead and buried with Amber. A flood of guilt washed over him as he realized that even with Amber, it had never felt like this, but that inadequacy wasn't House's fault – it was Wilson's for never recognizing an absence of something.

Wilson moved his lips slowly, gently coaxing House's mouth open with soft sweeps of his tongue. House let out a shuddering breath and allowed Wilson to delve forward. Their tongues brushed past each other and House tipped his chin to make it easier on Wilson. Wilson inhaled when he could and then crushed their lips together, their noses mashed against each other's cheeks. Stubble burn raked Wilson's lips, but he didn't care.

Wilson started grinding their cocks together without really thinking about it, drawing agonizingly slow circles with his hips. It hadn't occurred to him at first that when he had tackled House, their bare groins had ended up pressed together. It occurred to him now. House's breath caught and he moaned unevenly. The sound sent sparks firing through Wilson's nervous system, straight down to his cock, which he swore grew like the grinch's heart on Christmas. Shit – they weren't just fooling around on the couch on a testosterone-fueled binge anymore. They were having sex.

Upon realizing that, Wilson's first unadulterated thought was, _It's about damn time_. And that gave him pause. He broke the kiss and drew back, propped on his elbows. House's eyes had drifted shut after all, and he didn't open them yet. Wilson could practically see him savoring the moment, thinking that it would never come again, that they could never be friends after this and he had better enjoy whatever he had left. Just to prove him wrong, Wilson leaned down and nipped at House's lower lip before threading his tongue between House's teeth again. He made a concerted effort to map the space between House's gums and resumed the rhythm with his hips that he had allowed to fall off while he dealt with his epiphany. He had never thought about the reasons why he gravitated so strongly toward House before. He was attracted to House. More than just a little bit. And House was attracted to _him_.

An uncensored, "Oh god, House," fell from Wilson's lips between kisses, and House replied by doing something with his arms, finally. He tangled one hand in Wilson's hair to hold him in place, and trailed the other down Wilson's spine. He slid Wilson's boxers down off his ass and then kneaded a butt cheek, pressing down to increase the pressure between them. Wilson harrumphed into House's mouth and thrust properly against him. Their cocks slid past each other, delicious friction in the hot space between their bellies.

House arched and threw his head back with a contended sigh, his eyes still closed. Wilson fixed his lips over House's carotid and marked a damp line down to House's shoulder, his hips moving of their own accord now, sharper and faster. House gasped and grabbed Wilson's ass with both hands, holding him down as firmly as possible while he ground himself up, desperate. Their balls bumped together and Wilson had to stop suckling, overwhelmed by other sensations. He buried his face in House's neck, his nose in House's soft curls, and tightened his fingers about the back of House's head. He held on to House's shoulder with his other hand, simply because he wasn't sure what else to do with it, and he couldn't think clearly enough to figure something out.

It didn't seem like House minded; he lifted his left leg and wrapped it over Wilson's right as they kept moving, harder and faster, panting whenever they remembered to breathe. Soft grunts and whimpers escaped both of them as they hurtled forward, couch leather creaking against sweaty skin and clothes. Wilson could feel the pressure building, spread out in searing heat all through his groin and abdomen. He knew he was going to come hard; the buildup alone was torturous, and he clung to House, gritting his teeth as his rhythm turned erratic and his balls retracted. House kept him moving even as he went rigid, long fingers dug into his buttocks as colors exploded behind Wilson's eyes. He growled past clenched teeth, helpless against the wave that burst throughout his loins, and curled over House's body. His muscles seized and he cried out, pistoning his hips as fast as he could, painfully aware of every sensation, of the pulsing, wet heat, of House's hard cock right next to his, of House's body firm and feverish beneath him, of the scent where his nose was buried, and the ecstasy, oh god, how _good_ it felt, how he thought he might die if it went on any longer, how his body ached at the strain of enduring it…

House's arms were around him, though Wilson didn't recall him moving them. He had one hand wrapped over the back of Wilson's neck to hold his head down, the other cinched about his waist, soothing fingers running up and down Wilson's flank. Wilson was hardly aware of the fact that they had stopped moving, though he felt himself quaking in the aftermath. The sharp, pitchy sounds that assaulted Wilson's ears turned out to be himself as he panted loudly in House's ear. Ripples of pleasure continued to work their ways through his body, driving spikes of fire through his groin and his spent cock. Wow. Just wow.

Wilson shuddered and groaned as the last aftershock hit, resigned to the embarrassment of coming so completely undone in the presence of his best friend. He went limp, registering the presence of a hard member still sandwiched between them, then rolled his eyes behind lowered lids. He did not want to move, but he certainly didn't expect House to let him off the hook. There was a dare in play. Still. Despite this sidebar.

Sure enough, House's stubble tickled Wilson's neck a minute later, and lips followed. House tongued a spot behind Wilson's ear, shifting beneath Wilson's weight to purposefully draw attention to his own erection, and groused, "Would you mind?"

Wilson lifted his head, dopey on the tide of endorphins, to study House's face. He had thought that he heard uncertainty in the quiet words, and he was right. House was out of his element, and if Wilson were any good at reading him, frankly terrified. His fingers continued to trip over Wilson's back, though, in a soothing, un-House-like manner. The expression on his face led Wilson to risk asking, "Are you alright?"

House didn't snark back, miracle of miracles. He simply nodded and sucked on his upper lip, meeting Wilson's gaze as openly as Wilson had ever seen it. When the silence got to him, he asked, "You?"

"Great," Wilson replied. Then he leaned in, gratified that House didn't stiffen or pull away this time. Their lips met in a series of chaste kisses, edged in stubble, and then Wilson wriggled his way down House's body, ignoring the stickiness that patterned their skin from Wilson's spectacular release.

House reclined to his original position and Wilson blocked out the flavors of both himself and House as he lowered his mouth over House's leaking cock, fisting the bottom half. He didn't think it would take all that long, even considering House's Vicodin use, but he was too sated and lazy to make it fast and hard. Taste aside, this wasn't so bad, and he really enjoyed the way House shivered every few seconds, his left leg drawn up though he didn't do anything with it aside from plant his heel on the couch cushion and then fight not to thrust into Wilson's mouth. There was still something off about it, though – something impersonal; Wilson couldn't put his finger on what, exactly, until he happened to flick a glance upwards and catch sight of House's death grip on a handful of his own t-shirt.

Wilson paused, then drew his lips up House's shaft in one particularly brutal suck that House's pelvis canted to follow as he slipped from Wilson's mouth. "House?"

House grunted, then lifted his head. His eyes were cloudy with lust but subdued somehow, and Wilson didn't really like that expression.

"You're allowed to touch me, you know."

A blink greeted this revelation, and then House glanced aside to process that through his hormone-muddied brain. He looked back a second later. "You want me to?"

Wilson refrained from smiling because he wasn't sure he could keep his expression from appearing patronizing. In a calculatedly sober tone, he replied, "I'm not a hooker. There's no hands-off rule."

House's eyes widened a fraction. "I didn't say you were a – "

"Relax," Wilson interrupted, marveling at this brand new side to his best friend. Since when was House afraid he might have insulted someone? Although, Wilson had never actually dealt with a hooker, outside of passing politely by a few outside House's door. Were they that temperamental? "I'm just saying. You can touch me."

House took in a few breaths along with Wilson's words, but he didn't make any effort to release his safety-grip on his shirt. He nodded eventually and settled again, but he wasn't nearly as relaxed as before.

Wilson swore inwardly because that meant that he wouldn't be able to get this over with as quickly as he'd hoped; unease was a good killer of hard-ons. "Okay." Wilson left off his efforts below and crawled around on the couch until he was straddling House, who appeared to consider flight as a good response to his new position. Wilson was actually starting to enjoy himself again, though. House must have been programmed over time to be skittish when in compromising positions, which made sense; House went out of his way to avoid seeming even the slightest bit vulnerable, even to Wilson, who had seen more of his softer side than anyone else over time. He wondered why that was, but now wasn't the time. Wilson just had to find a way to get him into the activity again. And Wilson really wanted him to get into it – he wanted to see House come undone, literally; and Wilson was good at getting people off. "Tell me what you like."

House groaned in frustration and glared at the ceiling for a second. "This isn't gonna work. Lemme up."

Wilson made a grab for House's hands when he tried to somehow squirm his way off the couch, which he couldn't possibly do considering Wilson's position. Wilson missed because House drew his hands protectively up against his chest, but he leaned down on House's shoulders instead, just to make a point. "House, relax. There's nothing to freak out over."

"I don't want to relax!" He seized Wilson's shirtsleeves but didn't really do anything with them.

Wilson pressed him harder into the couch as House's breathing sped up to epic rates. "Are you having a panic attack?"

"Oh my god," House muttered, and turned scarlet as much from embarrassment as anything else. He turned his head as if he could hide the fact, but it was no use. "Just leave. It's cool. We don't have to mention it ever again."

"Why are _you_ so upset? I just came all over you," Wilson pointed out, but he released House's shoulders and sat up. He didn't get off, though. "And I don't want to forget about it; I want to do it again."

House sucked on his lip and shot Wilson a wary look. Wilson merely shrugged: no big deal. House actually balked at that. "It changes…things."

"No, it doesn't," Wilson scoffed. "It's sex. It's like…like movie night, times ten. It's just something people do. And since I'm not getting it anywhere else, and you're probably not either, why not get it with each other?" A little voice in the back of Wilson's brain called him a lying asshole, but he ignored it. Yeah, it was more than just sex, but he was pretty sure that they both knew that already. And House couldn't handle change very well, so it didn't need to be said out in the open. When House's gaze flit away again, Wilson spread his hands out, helpless. "You started it yourself."

"That was before I thought you'd do anything," House rasped, but his breathing had slowed back to a tolerable level.

Wilson could still feel House's ribcage expand and contract between his thighs, though, and the sensation stirred parts of his anatomy anew. He shifted, hoping to relieve the gradually building pressure in his groin, but it didn't help. Finally, Wilson began to panic himself, and he simply asked, "Do you want this, or was it just a dare?"

"You don't get it," House exhorted. He seemed to want to shove Wilson off, but at the same time, he didn't appear to want to touch him. And he point-blank refused to make eye contact. "I can't just risk…this _means_ something. This – " He gestured at the two of them, but Wilson thought he referred to the friendship part, not the half-naked on his couch part. "I can't lose it again."

Wilson's lips parted a fraction, but he was saved the need to censor his shock since House still wouldn't look at him. "Again? House, we're friends. You never lost that."

"You said we weren't friends!" House's entire body shook with the proclamation. "And it _did_ change. You don't come over anymore, we only have lunch together when I find you alone in the cafeteria – we're _not_ friends. I can't just go sit in your office with you anymore and talk about the nurses – you get that look on your face. You said you can't choose your friends, like you wouldn't choose to be my friend, you just _have_ to be…" He trailed off only because he lost his breath. Once he caught enough of it, he ended with, "I want the illusion. I don't have anything else left."

Wilson could only stare down at him and think _shit_, because House was _really_ freaked out by this, and he honestly thought they weren't friends? That he needed some farce so badly because he was too afraid of losing Wilson altogether? "I didn't think you'd take those things literally," Wilson admitted.

"You _said_ them," House replied, like that meant the world to him. They probably did.

Wilson knew that apologies were just thinly disguised white lies in House's world, so he didn't offer one. Instead, he reached out to brush some hair off of House's forehead even though it wasn't in the way of anything. House's eyes met his, filled with wariness and self-loathing, like Wilson had every right to have said hurtful things to him. Wilson leaned down slowly, looking for tells that he should just stop and let it all lie. Nothing moved in House's face, though; he had perfected impassivity over the course of a lifetime.

Wilson's lips grazed the corner of House's mouth, and then he pulled back far enough to see his face. There was a good reason for Wilson's silken reputation; he knew how to be seductive. At least this time, it would be sincere. "No illusion." He pecked at House's jaw line next and allowed his lids to flutter closed, shifting ever so subtly on top of him so that he could feel House's softened cock rubbing against the cleft of his ass. It was a strange feeling, but not unpleasant. Wilson's own groin was an unexciting place again, though the soft sensation of his balls resting on House's belly button left a warm spot in the pit of his stomach. "I _want_ to know you, House." He slid his hands down from House's shoulders and over the flat, soft planes of his chest. "I want to spend time with you." His mouth moved over to lick at an earlobe, just once before moving on. "I want to gossip about the hospital…" He nipped the skin behind House's ear and House grunted softly. "…let you steal my lunch…" His fingers found nipples and circled aureoles while his tongue darted out to taste tangy flesh. "…watch you play with your damned lacross ball from my balcony door…" Wilson let a soft chuckle escape, and felt House shift against his buttocks, responsive. "I want to wonder…" He nipped and suckled hard on House's neck and House's breathing sped up. "…when I'm sitting at my desk…" He soothed the bruised skin with soft wet swirls of his tongue. "…if you're watching me too." Wilson simultaneously pinched both of House's nipples, bit down on his shoulder and rubbed his ass down on House's hardening cock.

"…hhnnngh…" House arched into every stimulus with a full-body shudder.

"I want you to think about me when you're sitting here," Wilson went on. He raked his blunt fingernails down House's chest, purposefully catching one nipple in the way down. House gasped and grabbed Wilson's shirtsleeves again, but for a wholly different reason. "I want you to wonder if I'm thinking about you too." Wilson settled one hand on House's abdomen, just below his ribcage, and rose to a crouch over him, the balls of his feet compressing the couch cushion beneath them. His thighs quivered at holding the position. "Thinking about this..." He snaked a hand between their bodies and cupped House's throbbing erection.

House's eyes had grown wide and black. He barely breathed Wilson's name, caught between the call for flight and an incredible arousal.

"…my hands on you…"

"Oh my god."

"…the heat…" Wilson curled his fingers around House's length and simply held it. "…how _good_ it feels…"

House threw his head back and moaned, his spine curved off the couch.

Wilson shifted backwards, using the hand on House's stomach for leverage, pushing him back down on the cushions in the process. House's hands unclenched, allowing Wilson's shirt to slip free. "I want you to think…" He knelt back between House's legs and let his other hand slide down House's stomach, past his navel, then over to the crease of his inner thigh. "…that _nothing_ else compares."

"Nothing," House grunted in agreement, his eyes drifting closed again.

"I want this…" Wilson bent down and pressed his lips to the sensitive inside of House's left thigh. "…even more…" He slid his tongue up and shoved his nose in beside House's balls. "…than you do." Wilson captured a nip of that skin between his teeth and milked it.

"…_hhhaahh_…"

"Don't you want that too?"

"Yes," House exhorted with no hesitation whatsoever, as if he might chicken out of saying it. He groped about for some part of Wilson and ended up with a handful of Wilson's shirt collar and tie.

Wilson nibbled all around the base of House's cock, below where his fingers still grasped him, forcefully suppressing the urge to gag on more Cowper's fluid. Without breaking contact, Wilson mumbled, "You sure?"

House's breath came in short bursts that sounded suspiciously like whimpers, rendering his voice thready. "Yes, I want it."

"Mmmm….good."

House's hips twitched and quivered at the vibration of Wilson's voice, and Wilson moved to pin him down. One thing he knew, from watching his various wives' and girlfriends' reactions, was that those involuntary thrusts could put a serious damper on the moment. Wilson wasn't into being consensually choked, however accidental. He lowered his head and teased his tongue around the head of House's cock without actually touching his lips to it. When he prodded the edge of the foreskin, House swore breathlessly and gave another abortive thrust. His fingers tightened on Wilson's shirt and he tugged gently to urge him on.

Wilson complied, running his lips down over the head. He sealed his mouth around House's cock, just below the head, and massaged the glans with his lips. His tongue continued flickering about at random, over the foreskin, then along the rim. He puffed a breath of air under it again and House positively writhed. A hand showed up in Wilson's hair at that, though House didn't try to force Wilson's head down farther. He just anchored himself as Wilson continued teasing him, sliding his mouth a half inch lower, then back up, then farther down only to draw back to the very tip next time, his lips pursed to offer as much pressure as possible.

House quaked at Wilson's treatment, every limb taut with suppressed energy. Wilson decided that he had delayed long enough and took House in as far as he could. He bobbed his head in a steady rhythm, hoping that House wouldn't look down and see him cringing at the bitterness. He had a new respect for his ex lovers; he didn't think he'd be able to stomach doing this all that often. But for now, he was more concerned with repairing whatever had gone wrong between him and House, not just tonight but those other nights since Amber had died. Those nights when House had honestly thought that Wilson couldn't stand him.

Wilson's distraction ensured that he wasn't prepared at all for the burst of hot semen that spilled into his mouth. His eyes flew open but he recovered quickly enough to swallow a few times, a little bit horrified to be doing so, but the sight above him was well worth it. House's entire body had clenched, arched back off the couch, his head digging into the armrest. His lips were sealed over a plethora of noises that he tried to hold back – long, languorous, deep moans and helpless, staccato sounds of pleasure. Wilson sucked as hard as he could to prolong it, to pry as many muffled exclamations from House's throat as possible.

Once he could tell that the over-sensitized nerves were wrung out, Wilson let him slip from his mouth. He wasn't done yet, though. He proceeded to lave House's entire groin with his tongue, cleaning up every last bit of ejaculate that had spilled out. House twitched and quivered under this new onslaught, his fingers pulling painfully at Wilson's hair through no design. After he decided that he had done enough, Wilson took House's wrist and pried his fingers from his hair. Then he sat up and peered down the length of House's body.

Amazed blue eyes stared unblinking at the ceiling and Wilson grinned. "So…"

House craned his neck to get a good look at Wilson's grin. "So?"

"About that dare."

Post-coital House was apparently a little slow on the uptake. "What about it?"

Wilson's face turned smug. "I win."

House's chest heaved a few times, still out of breath, and then he came back to himself with a small twitch. "Rematch. You cheated."

Wilson snorted and shuffled around to sit properly with his pants still halfway down. "Did not."

"Did too."

"Not. You're just jealous."

"No, I just want a rematch."

Wilson smirked and turned his head to find the exact same expression on House's face. "Fine. You're on."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Okay, so I probably should have done the setting thing in part 1 but... I didn't. So, part 1 was like right after the episode "Birthmarks." Part 2 comes some time after Christmas in season 5, and will go from there in many, many more chapters.

Please R&R! And by all means, flame if you must; I can toast marshmallows.

Thanks!

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They had never been particularly physical toward each other, even after sex had entered their relationship. And even that was no big deal. Every now and then, when they were both a little stressed and they needed something to take the edge off, it just seemed like a natural thing to do. Arguments on House's couch tended to end in great sex with neither of them fully cognizant of how the argument started; Wilson's bad days at work spurred him into mauling his best friend just inside the apartment door – either of their apartments, it didn't matter; House's frustration over unsolved cases left him pressing Wilson face-first into the mattress, or the couch cushions, or once – Wilson's favorite, he secretly admitted – the island in House's kitchen.

That one had taken its toll, though; House had topped, standing, and after they finished, neither one of House's legs had been able to support him. Wilson had ended up collapsing on the floor with him, clutching House's upper body against his chest while a spasm stole his breath and bent him double over his thigh. They had not tried to repeat the position, but there were plenty of others to indulge themselves in, and they had done so with increasing regularity over the five or six months since Wilson had bumbled his way through a blowjob on a dare just to wipe the smugness off of House's face when he called Wilson a pussy.

Lately, however, House had seemed distant. Wilson knew that his leg had been bothering him more than usual, as the cold weather often made the healthy yet overworked joints of his right side ache with what would one day become full-fledged arthritis. Even so, Wilson was starting to get antsy. It had been three weeks. Surely House could only benefit from the endorphins, and it wasn't like Wilson wanted him to exert himself. All House had to do was lay there and Wilson would happily do all the work. He had been married three times, after all; he knew exactly what it felt like to have a passive partner who expected gratification without having to actually do anything for it. Wilson didn't resent being the giver in those situations, and House more than made up for it at other times. So, Wilson could not figure out why House had suddenly lost interest in the (in Wilson's opinion) superb benefits of their rekindled friendship.

Wilson shut off his computer and climbed wearily to his feet, stretching and lifting his arms to crack the kink out of his back. Just the previous night, he had scooted across the couch in the hopes of enticing House into a diversion, and House had pushed him off, complaining about personal space. He didn't think that House meant to put a complete end to the new facet of their relationship, but there was definitely something up. He knew House was still interested – he had caught him staring at Wilson from across the clinic just that afternoon. This hard-to-get angle was merely some sort of House-brand prod; Wilson just had to figure it out before the frustration killed him.

The drive to House's apartment took no thought on Wilson's part. He had grown so used to the routine of spending evenings there that when he thought of going home, House's couch came to mind before anything else. The spot in front of 221B had been cleared of snow and Wilson pulled in against the curb, noting House's wreck of a car in the space behind him, still buried in cascades of whiteness. He must have taken a cab in that morning. The fact that he hadn't asked Wilson for a ride just added a piece to the puzzle. It was like House wanted to avoid him just to goad Wilson into making a pest of himself later, because they both knew that Wilson would demand to know how he'd gotten to the hospital and back without use of his car or motorbike.

Wilson let himself into the apartment and immediately hesitated when he smelled a fresh pizza wafting on the air of the living room. House had ordered in? Without waiting for Wilson to show up so that he could con him into paying for it?

"I thought you had paperwork," House said without turning from the TV, where he lounged in jeans and a hideous yellow, short-sleeved button down with some sort of black dragon swirled across the front and over one shoulder.

Wilson shrugged out of his coat and hung it beside the door. That explained it; he had told House he wanted to stay late and clear his desk before the weekend. Besides, the clutter did not look professional, and he met patients in his office. He didn't want them thinking that he slacked, or worse, that he was too overworked to properly treat them. "I'll get my assistant to take care of it. There's no reason I should do it all myself, I suppose."

"I wondered when you'd finally realize the benefits of delegation. You almost disappointed me there."

"Yes, well, we can't all manage to delegate with the same level of completeness as you."

House snorted and pointed at the pizza. "I got half with your stupid broccoli."

Wilson sauntered over to the couch and plopped down next to him, touched. "How did you even know I'd show up?"

"Didn't," House shrugged.

"What would you have done with it if I hadn't come?"

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of House's mouth, but he hid it by stuffing an entire crust into his mouth.

"You would have guilted me tomorrow for making you spend money on wasted pizza, wouldn't you?"

House shrugged again. "Nothing else for it."

"I suppose not." Wilson reached for a slice and settled back. They watched the news for a few minutes, long enough for Wilson to finish his piece and clean his fingernails off with a paper towel from the roll that House had left laying on the coffee table. Then he laced his fingers over his belly, sated for the moment, and glanced over at House. "Good day today?"

"Nobody died," House offered. He licked pizza sauce from his fingers and Wilson studied the flicker of his tongue. The way it danced over House's knuckles…that was on purpose. House was teasing him.

Wilson smirked, his face an unconscious mirror of that same expression that so often graced House's features. He shifted closer and leaned over to grasp House's wrist, taking over the cleaning of pizza sauce and grease. He continued lapping at the tender webs of skin between House's fingers long after the flavor had given way to House's own unique taste. From the corner of his eye, he noticed House's eyelids droop halfway down, and Wilson shifted his mouth to the inside of House's wrist. He fixed his lips gently over the pale blue vein that pulsed there and suckled as if at a nipple, letting his tongue slip out to caress the skin while he grazed his teeth across the pulse point just hard enough that House would feel it.

A contented sigh met Wilson's ears and he increased the suction, his fingers tightening on either side of his lips, blunt nails digging into the sensitive skin near House's palm. Wilson ran his free hand up the inside of House's left thigh and squeezed the crease near his balls. Leather cushions made a racket as House shifted to put his groin in contact with the hand that Wilson left laying on his thigh. Wilson obliged and cupped the slight fullness there, his mouth wandering up toward the crook of House's elbow. He pressed down against House's burgeoning erection and rubbed his palm back and forth a bit as he left off playing with House's arm and moved in for a proper kiss.

House immediately parted his lips and Wilson plunged his tongue in, tilting his head for better access. He could taste garlic and pepperoni as he delved deep enough to almost induce House's gag reflex. Squeaks of leather offended Wilson's senses as he shifted up onto his knees to lean over House's body, increasing the pressure against House's cock and adding more of a proper stroke to the motion of his hand there. House let his head fall against the back of the couch and Wilson followed with his lips to pin him under his mouth.

The shape beneath Wilson's palm filled out and hardened, and the denim around House's fly grew damp. Wilson plundered House's mouth until neither of them could breathe, then continued his efforts to suffocate him. Hands appeared at Wilson's waist and ran down over his buttocks to the backs of his thighs. Long fingers crept inward until Wilson could feel them brushing against the backs of his balls. House tightened his grip drew him closer, urging him to swing his left leg over House's lap. Wilson refused, though; he could play hard-to-get too.

Of all the things that could backfire on him…

Wilson grunted in surprise and pitched forward into the space that House vacated as he stood up. "I'm gonna go check my email," House said, and limped away sans cane.

"What?" Wilson demanded. He untangled himself and somehow planted his feet well enough to stand. His own pants were stretched around an obvious hard-on and the interruption pissed him off. He had been frustrated for three weeks now, and House had to play on the internet? "House, we're sort of in the middle of something here."

"_You're_ in the middle of something," House countered. "I was just sitting there."

Wilson shifted restlessly, his hands on his hips. Lack of satisfaction rendered his words sharp. "Oh-ho, no you don't. There was participation from your end too."

"And now I'm done," House agreed while disagreeing.

"I hate it when you do that." Wilson let his hands drop. Defeat entered his voice and his arousal faded as he asked, "Am I doing something wrong? Do you want to stop this?"

House didn't answer, but Wilson noticed him adjust himself as he sat in the hard desk chair, and then forcibly refrain from pawing any further. So…his interest had not waned between the couch and the desk. Was this some new form of foreplay? Maybe House had just lost his mind. Maybe he wanted Wilson to follow after him. Maybe…

An idea formed in Wilson's mind but he only had one tie. He knew that more of them lurked about the apartment, though – casualties of the many nights he spent here. He glanced at House's back when the Windows boot-up jingle sounded from his laptop. This could be fun. He hadn't exactly pegged House for kinky, but hey. The man liked not-boring things, and even Wilson had to admit feeling that their encounters were starting to seem scripted.

Wilson wandered into the hallway and drank in the disappointment that flickered across House's face when he passed by without touching him. "Whatever you want, House." A slow staccato of computer keys accompanied Wilson's exit. He imagined the look on House's face when he finally discovered that Wilson had not given up.

He found one tie in the bathroom, looped over the towel bar along with a pair of Wilson's flannel pants. Another one turned up in House's bedroom under a pile of clothes that had not yet turned sour, and he found a third in House's sock drawer – one of House's, a red one. It was probably his _only_ tie. Wilson relished the thought of ruining it, or better yet, of so thoroughly associating it with sex that House wouldn't be able to wear it ever again without needing to hold something in front of his crotch to block it from view.

Wilson snuck back down the hallway and peeked into the living room. House was scowling at the computer screen, obviously uninterested in his email. His right hand was gripped absently over his crotch, probably beyond his conscious notice. Wilson knew that House did not mean for Wilson to see that he was irritated by Wilson's desertion, and still very much ready to go. Wilson grinned and stuffed a tie in each of his pockets. The third, he lifted, pondered for a second, and rested around his shoulders. It dangled on either side of the one he had worn to work that morning. All set.

As Wilson strode back into the living room, House lifted his hand from his lap in a move too quick to be considered innocent. Fortuitously, he grasped the arm of his chair to prevent his fingers from wandering. All Wilson had to do was slip the tie from his shoulders, stomp up beside him, and wrap the tie around his wrist.

House jumped at being touched and looked down at the tie, caught off guard by the sneak-attack. Wilson had looped the length of silk four times and knotted it before House seemed to process the fact that Wilson had just tied him to the arm of his chair. His eyes widened and his lips parted a fraction as he looked up, confusion written across the planes of his face. Wilson grinned at him and swiveled the chair so the he could do the same to House's other wrist. Only after the knots were secure did House tug at his bonds, his face delighted, and Wilson mentally congratulated himself on puzzling out a solution to the latest mystery that was Gregory House.

House looked up at him and noticed the other ties, one hanging out of Wilson's pocket and the other still knotted around his neck. "You have two more."

Wilson's shoulders lifted and he feigned innocence. "They might come in handy."

"Oh." House's throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his hips shifted to produce a bit of friction against the inside of his jeans. The definite interest of his hardened member became even more obvious at the movement, and Wilson took note of the way the denim dug in around the contours of his crotch. "Handy for what?"

"You'll see." Wilson stepped between House's parted legs and knelt down in front of him. "Mmmm. That must be uncomfortable," he crooned, running his hands up the insides of House's thighs until they encountered firmness.

House's breath caught and his pelvis jerked against Wilson's palms. He made fists against the arms of the chair, lifting his wrists enough to draw the silk tighter. "Help a guy out?" he rasped.

Wilson smiled, his tongue caught between his teeth, and leaned in. "Sure," he replied, but he slid his hands away from House's fly and around his lower back instead. House grunted as Wilson cupped his ass cheeks and pulled him closer to the edge of the chair. Then Wilson lowered his head and pressed his mouth over the clothed head of House's cock.

"Oh…" House's arms jerked and the wooden chair arms creaked as the ties prevented his limbs from going anywhere. Wilson nibbled all along his length and House's breath stuttered. He slipped farther down in his seat and pushed his hips forward in an effort to increase the pressure of his cock against Wilson's mouth, but Wilson drew back. House's breath exploded from his lungs and he groaned in frustration, his head tipping back. "Now, that's just mean."

A chuckle was Wilson's only response, and he rose up to bring House's mouth within reach. House dipped his head and Wilson grasped the back of his neck to hold him in place. He kept his tongue busy making circles in House's mouth. House's hips rocked toward him and Wilson pressed his torso against House's body. He let one hand coast southward again, but it stopped at House's tailbone. Wilson splayed his fingers along the small of House's back and exerted pressure against his spine.

House took the invitation to cant his lower body forward. He rubbed his clothed cock against Wilson's stomach, purring into Wilson's mouth, and Wilson shifted, trying to find something to stimulate himself with. House's legs weren't located anywhere even remotely useful, though, and the desk chair didn't come with a built-in fifth leg for rutting purposes. Which was a real pity, because it made Wilson wonder if the logistics of this were going to make it impossible.

House noticed the difficulty and broke the kiss. "Stand up."

"Why?"

"Just do it," House snapped. "And drop your pants."

Oh. Wilson stood up faster than he should have and immediately doubled over to catch himself against House's arms as his head spun. House took the opportunity to mouth along Wilson's neck and jaw, soft presses of his lips and little laps of his tongue in all the right spots. Wilson breathed deep and willed the spots out of his vision before straightening. As Wilson drew away, House licked his lips, savoring the tang of Wilson's skin that lingered there. Wilson swore he could have gone from zero to rigid by virtue of that sight alone; as it was, he grew painfully hard and struggled to divest himself of his pants without catching anything important in the teeth of his zipper.

Once his lower half had been exposed, his pants and boxers safely out of the way, Wilson stepped back between House's knees. Without hesitation, House leaned in and tipped his head to take Wilson into his mouth, his wrists straining against the ties that secured him to the chair. Wilson grabbed onto his shoulders to steady himself and fought to hold still. He didn't want to choke House; a blowjob was a rare thing between them, actually.

House's enthusiasm seemed to discourage immobility, though. His head bobbed up and down, his tongue flattened along the underside of Wilson's penis, his cheeks sucked tightly in around its full length. He paused every few seconds to shove the ridge of his tongue down into Wilson's slit and draw his lips up to press the sweet spot under his cockhead, until Wilson's thumbs dug into House's collarbone and his thighs shivered with the effort not to shove his cock down House's throat.

Then a hint of teeth entered the equation and Wilson gasped, bucking involuntarily as he threw his head back and struggled to remain standing. His left hand flew to the back of House's head and he twisted his fingers in the graying locks to stop House's motions. In retaliation, House's mouth tightened around the organ still in his mouth and he started humming low in the back of his throat.

"Unngh!" Wilson couldn't stop himself from thrusting shallowly forward, seeking out that tingle within the warm flesh of House's mouth. House accommodated him and kept up whatever tune he had chosen, the vibrations changing in speed and intensity as Wilson rocked against his face. After a few minutes, Wilson decided that while this was good, he wanted more than just a blowjob.

House whined in protest as Wilson withdrew and stepped back, braced against the desk while he regained control of himself enough to continue. Wilson's eyes ended up finding his discarded pants and he remembered that he had two ties left to use. But how to use them? He couldn't think straight enough to come up with an answer, so he looked at House.

"What, are you just gonna stand there?" House demanded, reclining lazily back in the desk chair. The penis pressing against the inside of his jeans sort of ruined the attempt at flippancy, but his tone still annoyed Wilson.

Wilson's gaze shifted back to the tie in his pants pocket, and then to the one he was wearing. Well…that would do, he decided, and pushed away from the desk.

"What are you doing?" House asked.

Wilson ignored him and walked over to extract the tie from the heap of khaki on the ground. On his way back to House, he tugged at the knot at his throat and slipped the silk out of his shirt collar. He balled it up and held it out toward House. "Open up."

House's head jerked back and he gave Wilson an indignant look. He didn't say anything, though, because if he opened his mouth, Wilson would be able to shove the tie in there.

"Oh, come on. Don't be a baby." Wilson shook the rolled-up silk under his nose.

House snorted and turned his nose up, daring Wilson to push it. Well…a bluff like that was what had initiated their sexual relationship to begin with. Did House really expect that to stop him? House's lips quirked as he studied Wilson's face. No, he did _not_ expect that to stop him. And that made the prospect of gagging him even more appealing.

"Okay then," Wilson chirped. He grabbed a fistful of House's shirt front and yanked him upward a few inches, enough to make House grunt in surprise and instinctively pull against his bonds. Wilson ducked his head and crashed their lips together, brutally working his tongue into House's mouth until they were both panting just from the exertions of their lips.

Without warning, Wilson let go of House's shirt and let him plop back down. Then he spun the chair, grabbed House's chin before House could react, and stuffed the tie into his mouth.

As House squirmed under the sudden assault, Wilson held the back of House's head against his abdomen. House struggled a bit and flexed his back as much from arousal as for the sake of resistance, but Wilson kept his hand over House's mouth to prevent him from spitting the tie out. A minute later, House stopped trying to free his head, but he kept wriggling his hips, endeavoring to press his groin hard enough against the seat of the chair to satisfy his need for friction. He seemed to have forgotten that Wilson was behind him, and he pulled against the silk securing his wrists as if to substitute one pressure for another, almost frantic. Wilson stared down, his hand cupped over House's mouth to smother the sounds that the tie didn't muffle. It looked like House was on the verge of coming just from being restrained. Wilson had never seen anything so hot in his life.

Their eyes met and at House's desperate whimper, Wilson wasted no time using the last tie as a gag. House bit down on the silk as soon as Wilson switched his hand out for it, and held still long enough for Wilson to get it knotted behind his head. Then House craned his neck and moaned around the cloth trapped in his mouth, his pupils blown, nostrils flaring with his rapid exhalations. Wilson came back to kneel in front of him and House lifted his hips, begging for contact in every possible way except with words. Wilson reached for himself instead and tugged a few times, his eyes raking over House's desperate body. Once House realized what he was doing, he growled and tried to say something, his eyes smoldering.

Wilson finally reached for the button on House's jeans and House let out a moan of sheer relief. The denim was wet and smelled strongly of musk. Wilson worked the zipper carefully over House's straining erection, fascinated by the way House's pelvis twitched even though he tried to keep still. As soon as Wilson finished opening his fly, House heaved his lower body up off of the chair so that Wilson could pull his jeans down over his buttocks. The sneakers had to go first, and then the jeans and boxers followed.

With the cloth out of the way, Wilson grabbed House's cock and started pumping it. House let out a muffled cry, his head tossed back, and thrust into Wilson's hand. His fingers clawed at the ends of his armrests and he used his upper body as leverage against the motions of his hips. Wilson reached up and ran his free hand over House's chest until he located a nipple through the awful yellow shirt, resting right underneath the eyeball of the black dragon. He pinched it as hard as he could manage and twisted, and House's entire body jumped, flexing backward. A guttural moan burst out of him despite the gag, and Wilson scratched his nails down House's chest as he let go of the nub.

The tension was beautiful. Wilson slowed his hand on House's cock but maintained a lazy rhythm, his ears attuned to House's frustrated groans as he tried to move enough to counteract Wilson's too-loose grip. Wilson's jaw went slack and lust overwhelmed him as House started to unravel before him. The muscles in House's legs twitched and shivered as he fucked Wilson's hand. A smooth ripple fluttered across House's abdomen with each upward thrust and he folded forward in the chair only to throw himself back a second later, his teeth clenched on the tie as his helpless groans grew louder, higher in pitch and shorter in length, the inhales just as audible as the exhales…silk digging into his wrists as he pulled and twisted his arms…

Wilson had to shut his eyes to block out the sight before he passed out from the southward rush of blood, as if he weren't already rock hard and aching. He took himself in hand too and tightened his fist around House, stroking them both in tandem. "Ohhhh….god…" Wilson moaned and hunched over himself, angling his pelvis so that he could roll his hips forward on each down-stroke, his fingers tightening and speeding up. He heard the chair squeak and then a thunk sent vibrations snaking throughout House's body. Wilson's eyes slit open onto the sight of House pressing the back of his head into the desk, his upper body raised on his arms to bend backwards over the chair while he threw his penis into Wilson's fist. He would come soon if Wilson let him; visible shudders already coursed down his torso and into his legs, his muscles clenched and strained, nearly there…

Wilson let go of House's penis and sat back on his haunches to reach for his pants again. He continued stroking himself as he extracted his travel-size tube of lubricant and looked back up. House was watching him from behind the black pits of his eyes, ringed only by the barest tinge of blue. The tendons in his arms stood out from the force with which he strained against the ties binding his wrists. Wilson rose back up and let go of his cock in order to seize House's jaw, turning his head roughly to the side so that he could scrape his teeth over House's jugular. He could feel House panting against him, grunting and whimpering even though the silk trapped in his mouth intercepted most of the noises. House had never been this vocal before and Wilson almost took the gag off so that he could hear it more clearly. Each exhale carried hitched moans that Wilson could feel beneath his lips, vibrating in the back of House's throat, but only the loudest made it past the silk to tease Wilson's ears. It enflamed him. He licked and nipped his way down to House's shoulder, then bit at the juncture of his neck. House twitched and arched into Wilson's mouth, his neck fully bared in hope of more.

Wilson didn't move toward the offering, though; he refused to relinquish the flesh between his teeth. Instead, he increased the pressure and House's strangled cry tickled Wilson's cheek, where it rested against House's larynx. Wilson licked and sucked without letting go, and worked his hands around to House's ass. A small amount of maneuvering brought House's pelvis to the edge of the desk chair, providing Wilson with enough access to satisfy them both.

The pop of the lube cap snapping open caused House to twitch, and then Wilson's slippery fingers were probing the seam between his cheeks, which hung half off the chair. Wilson let up on House's neck in favor of trailing his lips down to House's collarbone. House's fingernails gouged into the armrests as Wilson rubbed the slick pad of his finger over the ring of muscles at House's opening, his thumb massaging House's perineum, and then every muscle in House's body tensed in sweet anticipation, sending a fine shiver racing throughout his frame.

Unfortunately, the involuntary clench also denied Wilson entrance. Wilson ran his free hand over House's stomach, petting him until he settled enough to allow Wilson to slip a finger inside. House canted his hips to encourage Wilson to probe deeper, and Wilson pressed far enough to nudge House's prostate.

House's jaw clenched and he gnashed the gag between his teeth, grunting each time Wilson flicked the node inside of him. His breathing turned ragged and he squeezed his eyes shut, his body struggling to increase the stimulation of the digit twisted inside of him. To prevent him from breaking Wilson's finger with his thrashing, Wilson held House's hips down with his right arm. This further restraint set House's entire body to shuddering in ecstasy, but it left Wilson wishing for a third hand so that he could do something about his own painful arousal.

As if House were psychic, he rearranged his left leg, letting his knee fall wider, and twisted the chair enough to comfortably shove his foot between Wilson's knees where they rested on the floor. Wilson refrained from moaning in relief but he knew he looked desperate as he rose up and straddled House's leg, pausing in his other pursuits long enough to get his thighs squeezed on either side of House's calf, the underside of his penis resting against the course hair on House's shin. Then he resumed the motions of his fingers and leaned harder on the arm that rested over House's hips to hold him in place.

Musk and sweat filled the air with the sweet scent of arousal, and Wilson curled over House's knee to lay his face next to House's cock where it rested in a long curve against Wilson's right forearm, full and glistening with precum. House had tipped his head back again and Wilson peered up at him for a moment as he rubbed himself against House's leg. House sounded as if he might have been choking but he was simply letting out strings of incomprehensible syllables that the gag distorted. Wilson couldn't watch for long; House's knee dug in against Wilson's diaphragm and Wilson buried his face in the crease where House's leg met his body. He continued to rut, repeatedly curling his abdominal muscles at a rapid pace, his finger twisting in House's body while House struggled to push his hips up against Wilson's arm.

Wilson bent his head to nose around House's balls while he kept pumping his finger in and out, hitting House's prostate on every third stroke. He shoved himself hard into House's leg and licked a line up the underside of House's leaking cock, relishing the bitter taste of it. House quivered and instinctively fought to move toward release as Wilson added a second finger and stretched him farther open. House cried out and convulsed in pleasure, his leg jumping between Wilson's thighs. It was a fight for Wilson not to let loose and come right there, humping like an animal. The stimulation just felt so wonderful against the underside of his cock. He forced himself to stop moving but kept his penis sandwiched between his stomach and House's calf. Each minute, involuntary contraction of House's leg muscles intensified the feeling for Wilson as it stimulated Wilson just enough to make him gasp, but not enough to bring him any closer to the brink. His hips kept twitching in sympathy, though, as House made abortive attempts to buck or squirm, or even just to breathe more quickly.

To distract himself from his own dilemma, Wilson sucked the tip of House's penis into his mouth and puffed a breath of air under the foreskin. House thrashed and keened as Wilson's tongue followed and sought out the slit, his moist lips moving in a subtle rhythm against the spot just beneath the head. A wave began to build at the base of Wilson's spine, spurred on by House's need and the leg wriggling up against Wilson's groin. He squeezed his thighs tighter around House's calf to stave it off.

The chair creaked in protest while House writhed and clenched and yanked against his silken bonds, and Wilson's third finger prompted House to flatten one of his hands and smack the chair arm in frantic warning. Wilson let House's cock slip from his mouth and avoided his prostate altogether now to keep him from careening over the edge before the real fun could begin. Whether he had intended for Wilson to hold him back or not, he still groaned and resumed his struggles to get back the sensations that Wilson denied him.

Wilson deemed him ready a few seconds later and withdrew his fingers. House tilted his head back down and rested his chin on his chest to regard Wilson, his lungs heaving to betray his eagerness. The lube cap clicked again and Wilson squeezed a liberal portion out into his hand. He hissed and twitched as he coated his penis, just as close and desperate as House had been a moment ago. Enough lube remained on his hands to make it pleasant when he would eventually take House in hand to finish him off.

For now, Wilson inched backwards and House drew his leg out from between Wilson's thighs. Cold air hit the underside of Wilson's penis and he shivered, reaching for the bar under the desk chair. He pressed it with the back of his hand and House sank to a more convenient height, allowing Wilson to situate himself between House's legs. He held his lubed fingers up and out of the way, leaning his forearms over the insides of House's elbows.

The chair rolled backwards unexpectedly and Wilson's upper body ended up in House's lap. House snorted a short bark of laughter around the gag and nudged him out of the way with his good leg. Wilson glared at him until he realized that House was swiveling the chair to brace the seatback against the desk and prevent any more inconvenient movement. Wilson shuffled around with him and resumed his previous position, but he had too little leverage and no clean hands. Impatient, Wilson wiped his right hand down the front of House's shirt, smearing lube all over the stupid dragon.

House balked and made some sound that was probably meant to be an insult. Wilson merely grinned and reached up to grip the back of the chair. He guided himself to House's entrance with his left hand and pushed forward. House's rectum rippled around him and Wilson slipped past the second ring of muscles, pressing slowly forward until he was buried up the hilt, his balls resting against the edge of the chair.

They both fought to breath for a moment, and then Wilson angled himself inside of House's body and shifted so that he could rest his torso against House's. Wilson bent his head and buried his face in the crook of House's neck, aware of House's rigid cock leaking in the compressed space between their stomachs. He thought that House may have been moaning or talking, but the silk gag made it impossible to tell. Wilson circled his hips to see if House was ready for movement, and House's pelvis shot up, his throat vibrating against Wilson's shoulder as he vocalized his enjoyment.

Wilson let go of the chair and wrapped his arm around House's shoulders instead, anchoring himself. Then he started to thrust, slowly at first. House's body arched into him and he did his best to move in tandem with Wilson, the chair squeaking more angrily as Wilson increased the tempo and shoved into House with more force. Wilson's abdominal muscles flexed and cramped from the exertion, and his knees began to ache, but he didn't let up.

House's breaths turned erratic and it sounded as if he were snuffling every time he inhaled, struggling to draw enough oxygen through his nose. Wilson lifted his head to find House's face contorted in bliss, his eyes shut but loose as Wilson's cock slid back and forth inside of him. Wilson smiled and shut his own eyes, pressing his face back into House's neck and mouthing at the skin there. His hips moved faster, harder, until he was pounding into House's body and House was moaning continuously, his voice high pitched and rather loud despite the gag. Wilson forgot about the lube coating his left hand and wrapped his other arm around House's waist, crushing them together so that he could penetrate deeper, his thrusts sharp and quick. He knew when he started hitting House's prostate at that perfect angle because House jerked against him and wailed, his pelvis canting against Wilson and shoving back.

Everything surrounding Wilson's cock tightened suddenly and Wilson's arms clenched, his hands digging into House's shoulder and back. "Mmmmph!" He felt House's face press into his shoulder. Moist, nasally exhales coasted over the skin behind Wilson's ear, and House's rectal muscles rippled again, sending delicious shocks cascading throughout Wilson's system. "_Nng! _Oh – _god_shit!"

Wilson panted against House's skin and then bit down as he lost control of his hips. He felt House arch and writhe, then start shoving up against Wilson's body as Wilson continued to drill him. The world pulsed all around him and Wilson felt the warmth shoot up into the space between their bellies as House clenched around Wilson's cock, growling into Wilson's ear and bucking wildly in the throes of orgasm. Wilson kept right on going, hurtling himself along as quickly as he could manage while House tightened and shuddered and jerked against him, and then colors exploded behind Wilson's eyes.

He shoved himself into House as hard as he could, aware of the chair creaking and the contents of the desk rattling behind it from the force of his thrusts. Wilson grunted and muffled himself in House's shoulder as wave after wave crashed over him and kept coming, again and again. His spine arced and he heard himself crying out, heard House hitting a second high as Wilson pounded into him, unrelenting and desperate both for more and for a merciful end. He was empty yet still hard, and the pleasure wouldn't subside until he had somehow managed to heave himself half up onto the chair with House, his right knee wedged under House's left thigh, his balls slapping against House's body and House's ass still squeezed tightly around him.

Wilson jerked forward twice more and the last wave of white-hot intensity trickled away, leaving him quaking and sweaty and breathless. His softening penis slid out of House's body and Wilson fell back off the chair to lay spread-eagled on the floor, gasping wide-eyed at the ceiling. His eyes wandered low enough to catch sight of House slumped in the chair, looking thoroughly fucked and blissed out, his legs spread wide and spots of come drying in sticky patches all over the front of that horrible shirt. Wilson let his head flop back against the floor, his eyes sliding closed as he basked and floated in the afterglow of the best orgasm he could ever recall having.

Several minutes later, the chair creaked and Wilson heard House stirring. He cracked an eye open and saw that House had managed to work the gag from his mouth and spit the tie out. "Wilson?"

Wilson didn't move but he grunted to let House know that he was paying attention.

"We're doing that again."

"No question," Wilson agreed.

They both breathed some more and then House said, "Hey. I need you to untie me."

Wilson groaned and stayed put. "You can wait."

"Wilson?"

"You're ruining my moment."

"You can never wear any of these to work again."

Wilson's lips drew back in a wicked grin. "Says you."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Okay, so I set off to write a steamy sequel to H.N.T.B.B., and this is what my fingers horked up. I think my smut!fairie got held at gunpoint by the Nefarious Muse of Angst. In any case, this ended up falling somewhere between smutty and slightly serious. So here you go. I did some research, but if I effed up the medical junk, lemme know. (There's more of it in later sections.) I only get to practice medicine in my head. **Comments plus concrit equals love!**  
**Summary: **Wilson stumbles onto a mystery and decides to try to decipher House. God help him.

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Wilson tapped his foot against the leg of the piano and shifted again on the bench. House should have been here twenty minutes ago. Wilson had timed the end of his day for this – had shadowed House around the fourth floor from three o'clock on, until the fellows all donned jackets and House started to pack up his iPod and Gameboy. Then Wilson had grabbed his jacket and briefcase and high-tailed it out of the hospital before House had finished locking up.

It wasn't bowling night, was it? Wilson pulled out his PDA and checked the calendar just to be sure. No, not bowling night. So where was House? He hadn't mentioned having any plans, not that Wilson expected to be party to every single one of House's waking moments. Well, maybe…a large number of them…oh, hell. If House could be possessive, so could Wilson.

The whir of the Repsol's engine finally reached Wilson's ears and he shot to his feet to give the living room a last once-over. Obstacles removed from the floor, a couch cushion borrowed and placed in front of the piano bench, all lights off, tie in hand. All good. Wilson peeked out the window and watched House lifting his leg over his bike. There was still time to put everything back to rights if House appeared to be in too much pain today, but he looked downright cheery as he placed his right foot on the ground and then hopped in a half-circle to reach for his cane. Wilson's face split in a feral grin and he ducked out of sight before House could spot him.

As the foyer door opened and shut and House's lopsided footsteps approached the door to 221B, Wilson slipped into the entryway and pressed himself back against the wall, where the door would hide him until House got all the way in and closed it. The key rattled in the lock and then the door swung inward.

House stayed in the hall, though, and went still. "Wilson?"

Wilson held his breath. Could House see the piano bench and the couch cushion from where he stood? Did the light from the hall reach that far?

"Hmph." House shuffled forward and Wilson watched his key ring sail onto the desk as he limped inside, his back to Wilson. He dropped his pack next to the desk chair – Wilson shut his eyes to clear his head of the image of House tied to it – and then hooked his cane up over the molding above the entryway.

Wilson still didn't move. He waited until House had shrugged his jacket off, precariously balanced on his left leg, and tossed it on the desktop. Then he slammed the door shut and grabbed House's shoulders as he started and jumped from the sound. Wilson used his pounce as an excuse to hold House upright when his balance threatened to topple him over onto his right side, and before he did anything else, Wilson ran his tongue up the side of House's neck. Tang and soap touched his taste buds.

"Geez," House exclaimed, but got no further. Wilson shoved him back into the wall and covered his front with his own body, angling his head to crash their lips together with brutal force. Wilson had been half-hard for over an hour already, dammit. He _needed_ to do something about it.

House inhaled sharply through his nose but the breath caught halfway and he moaned, his hands clutching at Wilson's waist as he responded to the assault. That was not what Wilson was after this time, though. He reached down for House's wrists and twisted them up against the wall on either side of his head, leaning his weight forward to keep them there.

House let him do it, but probably only because he hadn't expected it. Once he realized that Wilson had pinned him, he broke the kiss and leaned his head back. "What – ?"

"No talking," Wilson growled, and recaptured his lips. House yielded and whimpered, something he _never_ did aside from the one other time that Wilson had tied him down. Oh, _god_, this was going to be good.

House's hands curled into fists and he twisted his wrists in Wilson's grasp, not really trying to break free but rather creating friction against the hands that held him. His hips jutted forward and Wilson felt the hardness that already existed there. Wilson answered by crushing him harder against the wall and forcing his left leg in between House's. He deliberately rubbed his thigh against House's groin and House's head tipped back again, his breath stuttering out through parted lips. "Oh-oh-hicmp."

Wilson gave him a strange look for that hiccup, but he couldn't deny that the sound of it turned him on. He latched his mouth onto House's trachea and sucked a patch of skin that covered a tendon in his neck. House's back arched and Wilson pressed back to flatten him against the wall again, his fingers tightening around House's wrists.

"Nnnn…ahhah." House's breath was already erratic and he panted against Wilson's ear, struggling to move enough to take advantage of the leg trapped between his thighs. Wilson refused to let him, and House bit his lip, throwing his head back into the wall. "_Mmmmmph!_" His chest heaved and Wilson could feel House's heart beating against his chest.

"Oh…god, House," Wilson muttered against House's skin. His cock throbbed in his pants and he couldn't get enough satisfaction from frotting against House's leg. The tie – where had he put the damn tie? Shit. Wilson let go of one of House's hands and wrenched at the knot of the one he still wore. It was a good thing that office-wear sat so naturally on him that he didn't even notice his ties anymore when he got home to relax.

House's freed hand found Wilson's left buttock and dragged him in, and the shift in weight allowed him to finally thrust against Wilson's body. They both gasped and Wilson paused in loosening his tie to remember what the hell he wanted to do with it. Oh, right. The piano bench. He slid the silk from around his neck and then yanked the hand from his ass. He had to let go of House's other hand to get the tie looped about House's right wrist, but he didn't allow House enough time to do anything with his newfound liberty. Without warning, he drew back and pulled House forward, then shoved against his shoulder and slammed him face-first onto the desktop.

The breath rushed from House's lungs to flutter the papers near his nose, and then House couldn't stop himself from muttering, "Ohmygod." He bent his face into the wood the second it slipped out, as if he expected some sort of punishment for speaking after Wilson told him not to.

Oh…damn, that was hot. Wilson shoved his clothed cock against House's backside before he realized what he was doing, and then he leaned forward until House's upper body was squished against the desk. Wilson's mouth hovered right next to his ear. "I said no talking."

House gasped and nodded vigorously with his forehead still pressed to the desk. The submissive behavior ratcheted Wilson's arousal up to the most urgent level and he grabbed both of House's hands. House wheezed into the desk and trembled but he obediently crossed his wrists behind his back and let Wilson get the tie looped around them both.

As Wilson started to knot the silk in place, House's torso flexed for some unknown reason. Then he whispered, "Tighter…please…"

Wilson paused to look at the back of House's head, unsure whether he had heard correctly or not. He untied the knot anyway and pulled the ends until the silk bit into House's skin and House himself was whimpering on each and every exhale, his body tensed to keep from squirming. Wilson's own breathing turned ragged and he bit his lip on the moan that the sight engendered, rushing to tie the binding in place. Then he dragged House upright and slipped his hands through House's arms, embracing him from behind. He made sure they were canted to the left before tightening his arms over House's waist and chest, his fingers dug like claws into House's body.

"_God_, I've never been so turned on in my life," Wilson murmured into House's ear, and then he bit the lobe and reveled in House's helpless groan. House's fingers moved behind his back, against Wilson's stomach, until he managed to dip them below Wilson's waistline and into his pants. "Ah!" Wilson shoved forward against House's fingers and raised up on his toes until House was able to grip the head of his penis and run his index finger into the slit. Wilson hissed and thrust upward, but House removed his fingers. It took a second for Wilson to process this, and then he fondly muttered, "Prick," into House's ear.

House snorted and turned his head to grin at Wilson, his eyes black in the dim light of the apartment. But he didn't retort, not verbally anyhow. He did shrug his shoulders as if trying to get away, prompting Wilson to grip him more firmly and pull him backwards a few steps. His mouth found the back of House's neck and he nipped the skin near House's shoulder while thrusting lightly against House's ass. They clothes had to go soon; Wilson couldn't last like this. Just the thought of getting House bent over the piano bench drove him straight to the edge. He dropped a hand to House's crotch.

House's eyes popped wide open as Wilson groped him in an unforgiving manner, and then he squeezed them shut. "_Nnnnggg!_" He threw his head back onto Wilson's shoulder, the tip of his tongue protruding from between his teeth. Then his entire body seemed to convulse and arch backwards before his legs gave out.

Wilson had been waiting for this. He sank to the floor, supporting House's weight, and they came to rest on the couch cushion in front of the piano bench. The moment House's knees touched down, his pelvis ground forward and Wilson's fingers automatically tightened over the bulge between House's legs. Then the most unexpected sound burst from House's mouth, something like a yelp taken on the inhale. Before Wilson knew it, House's body was shuddering violently in his arms, his back rounded as he curled forward and tensed his shoulders, gasping desperately and gulping as much air as he could manage.

It took several seconds for Wilson to register the warm wetness spreading through the denim beneath his hand and he froze as House continued to quake and hyperventilate. He finally stilled after longer than Wilson would have thought possible, his breathing quick and uneven. A moment later, House licked his lips and hiccupped.

Wilson shifted a bit and asked in disbelief. "Did you just…?" House's silence was answer enough, though Wilson heard him sniff and swallow convulsively. "I hardly touched you."

House's face scrunched up and he bent lower to hide his expression as Wilson removed his hand from his crotch. The embarrassment was evident in his voice when he whispered, "Oh, god. I swear I didn't mean to."

Contrary to expectations, House's getting off actually killed Wilson's mood. It might have had something to do with the fact that House couldn't seem less pleased by the outcome. Wilson scooted back and untangled his arms from House's body, confused as to why this bothered him. House interpreted the movement as rejection – which it was, more or less – and ducked to rest his forehead against the piano bench with a sigh, his arms still bound behind his back. After a moment's consideration, Wilson leaned forward and loosened the knot enough for House to work his hands free.

They sat there for a while, both of them kneeling on the floor without looking at each other, and then the silence grew so suffocating that Wilson had to speak. "It's good, actually. I mean…it means you liked it, right?"

House raised his head and massaged his wrists without turning to look at Wilson. "It means I have the self control of a fourteen year old boy."

Wilson let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, but considering how long it usually takes you…" The inadvisability of those words made Wilson shut up as soon as they reached his own ears. He glanced at the stiff set of House's shoulders. "I mean…it must be nice to know you can still…go that fast…if you want to…" Okay, that didn't help at all.

House placed a hand on the piano bench and twisted to look at Wilson, his blue eyes hurt.

"I didn't mean it the way it sounded," Wilson said. "I know the Vicodin makes it hard sometimes." His hand found the back of his neck and sort of spasmed there as House stared at him.

After a moment, House's head tipped to the side and he put his back to Wilson again. "You can leave now."

"Aw, come on," Wilson said. He tried hard to imbue his tone with the sort of casual abruptness that characterized most of their interactions, but it sounded just as forced as it was. "You don't have to be like that about it."

"Seriously," House snapped without looking at him. "Get out."

Wilson stayed where he was, but he pressed his tongue into his cheek, thinking. "It really does something for you, doesn't it? The whole…bondage thing."

"Oh, for – " House cut off whatever he was going to say and then barked, "Just go, Wilson."

Wilson grinned; ruffling House's feathers was always fun, and he found so few opportunities for doing so, seeing as how House got flustered about once a year. "Which part is it, exactly? The actual tying up, or the part where I tell you what to do?"

House's head impacted the piano bench and he shook it. The sweat on his forehead squeaked as his skin slid on the lacquered wood. "Just drop it, will you?"

"Not a chance," Wilson laughed. "Your ears are actually turning red."

House groaned in frustration.

"You should clean up before it dries," Wilson pointed out. "I don't want to listen to you complaining tomorrow about yanking out all your – "

"Shut up!" House finally lifted his head and turned around, shifting over to sit back on his left hip to take the weight off his bad leg. Wilson's glee faded; House wasn't even slightly amused. "Why can't you just forget about this?"

Wilson shook his head and reevaluated the conversation up until then. He couldn't figure out what had so thoroughly upset House, except for maybe the comment about how long it took him to reach completion. "Okay, you got me. What's wrong?" He paused, considering. "What else do you like that you don't want me knowing about?"

House's breathing sped up in response to something akin to anxiety and Wilson watched him war with himself over whether to answer or not. It was fascinating. He'd never seen House so out of sorts. Finally, House bowed his head and shook it. No answer. He seemed ashamed.

Wilson leaned back on his haunches, his head cocked while he gazed at House's lowered head. "Come on." Wilson climbed to his feet, wincing as his knees protested being treated like a twenty year old's, and stepped up behind House. "Let's clean you up."

"Wilson – "

"I'm dropping it. Let's go." Wilson leaned down and hooked his arms under House's armpits. House allowed himself to be dragged upright, but he shrugged Wilson off once he had his feet placed well enough to stand. Wilson unhooked House's cane from the molding at the front door and passed it to him.

House disappeared into the bathroom and Wilson set about cleaning up the living room, his thoughts tumbling about his skull at breakneck speeds. Something about that encounter had been significant, though Wilson didn't know if it was only one thing or the confluence of many. House definitely liked to be bound – there was no doubt of that. The surprise aspect may have played a part too, as well as Wilson's dominance. It could also have been the position, though. Wilson liked to look at his lovers when he had sex, so whenever he topped, he always made sure that he and House were facing each other. House, on the other hand, usually took Wilson face-down on something when he topped. Maybe he preferred it from behind?

"Oh. There you are." Wilson retrieved his original tie from the corner behind the door and smoothed it out against his arm. He stared at it for a little while, his mind far away. He would have to figure this out, he decided. Which meant that a little experimentation was in order.

* * *

A week later…

Wilson stood just out of sight around the corner from the clinic. He almost felt sorry for House; he had been stuck in Exam Room 1 for the past forty-five minutes with some woman and her three brats, none of whom had appeared in need of anything more than a smack upside the head and a time out. And that woman could have benefited from parenting lessons. In fact, the clinic had technically closed half an hour ago; that was why Wilson had chosen to lurk about, waiting for House to finish with his last patient so that he could jump him, thereby testing the surprise aspect of his theory on House. Even Nurse Brenda was busy fidgeting, throwing irritated, impatient glances between her watch and the closed exam room door.

Wilson finally just pushed the clinic door open and strode up to the reception desk. "Why don't you take off? I have to wait for House anyway," he offered.

Brenda gave him a grateful smile, tempered with a healthy dose of wryness. "He's gonna be hell when he gets through with them. I was tempted to gag those brats myself."

"Heh." Wilson shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets, affecting his meek cancer doctor pose. "I'm used to him. Don't worry about it."

That was all the convincing that Brenda needed. She gathered her things with another appreciative comment and left for the day. Wilson sat in the receptionist chair and put his feet up, wondering if maybe he should try to rescue House from the demons. No, he decided; Wilson had learned from experience that an annoyed House made for much better sex. _Much_ better.

Another half hour went by before the exam room door finally opened and three screaming, tantrum-tossing hell-children poured into the waiting room with their irate-looking mother behind them. Wilson smiled politely and unlocked the main door so that they could leave, muttering apologies for who-knew-what the entire time. He couldn't even tell what the woman was so angry about; she just kept barking and throwing her hands about while her demon-seeds drove a spike through Wilson's temples with their caterwauling.

As soon as they were gone, Wilson relocked the door, turned around, and leaned against it. Maybe he didn't want to do this now after all. Annoyed House was fun; supremely pissed-off House prompted new colors in the terrorist-attack warning meter. If those people had given Wilson a headache inside the space of thirty seconds, then he could only imagine what they had done to House over the course of an hour. They were probably lucky to still be alive.

As if to confirm Wilson's fears, he heard a crash from the other side of the open exam room door, like House had flung the wheeled stool into the exam table. The clatter of his cane followed; he must have thrown it against the wall. Wilson sighed and worked his hands back into his pockets. It would take all night to get him calmed down and back into a passably good mood.

Or maybe Wilson could just forego the surprise-attack experiment and try one of his other theories.

He sauntered into the exam room, his head ducked and his smile shy. He knew that House would be caught off guard by that look, considering that House had just stopped short of trashing hospital property. "Hey. Rough day?"

House looked up from the countertop he was leaning on and glared at Wilson. "Did you see them? They need to be shot."

Wilson's brows twitched and he leaned his shoulder against the door jamb. "What was wrong with them?"

"_Nothing!_" House bellowed, pushing off the countertop to step haphazardly backwards, ignoring his limp and the equilibrium that it compromised. "All that moron wanted was pills to shut her kids up. She can't be bothered disciplining them or spending time with them – she just wants them to shut up. _I _want them to shut up too, but stuffing _pills_ down the throats of _toddlers_ just because she's too _lazy_ to be a proper parent – "

"Point taken," Wilson agreed, stepping forward. House looked about ready to overbalance, and if he managed to trip over himself on top of already being furious, Wilson would _never_ get him civil enough to leave PPTH. "Why don't you sit down for a second." He pushed the stool toward House with his foot.

"Why can't we call social services on idiot mothers?" House demanded, ignoring him. "She's gonna end up slipping benedryl into their mac-n-cheese to get 'em to sleep – "

"House, _sit down_."

House started, his mouth still open, but he stopped ranting long enough to glance at the stool that Wilson was pointing at. With an irritated sigh, he leaned on the exam table and lowered himself down. "Seriously, she's gonna end up hurting those – "

"You can flag it in their file and let Cuddy take care of it," Wilson interrupted. He turned to shut the exam room door and then approached House where he perched on the stool, wound up and edgy. "Lean back against the exam table and put your arms up."

House's head tilted to one side and a wary brand of curiosity took the anger's place. "Why?"

"Either do it and find out, or we can leave now and forget it."

House thought about it for a second, and then spread his arms across the exam table behind him, looking for all the world as if he were lounging on his couch at home. He regarded Wilson with a mixture of anticipation and hesitance, both of which Wilson ignored.

"Good. Now don't move. You touch me, and I'll stop."

House's brows drew together, and then the surprise took over as Wilson stepped between his spread legs and knelt down. "Hm. Kinky."

"Not a sound, House," Wilson warned. He drank up the immediate cessation of talking as House settled back more comfortably to watch Wilson, his lips parted and his breathing still slightly more rapid than a resting man's respirations should be.

Wilson immediately reached for House's belt and House jumped a little at the suddenness. "What, no foreplay?"

Wilson's hands froze on the buckle and he glared up. House's face actually paled a bit, and he swallowed when Wilson's gaze didn't soften. "Just for that," Wilson said, and then he reared up suddenly to slam House's body back against the exam table. House grunted, his eyes wide and a bit frightened, but the pupils dilated even as Wilson's face stopped with a minimum of air to separate them. In his periphery, Wilson saw House's hands clench around the paper sanitary cover of the exam table, and the crinkle was the only sound in the exam room, aside from their breathing. With their torsos pressed together, Wilson could feel a hint of firmness building in House's groin, but it was nothing like the hardness that had greeted his surprise attack in House's apartment. So he was onto something, but not quite all the way there yet.

Wilson dropped his hands to the creases between House's thighs and his body, and House tensed again, his fingers tightening on the table paper. "Just for that, I'll have to draw this out…make it a little more – " He pinched, hard, and House twitched into the pain. " – unpleasant for you."

If it had been possible for House's pupils to take over his entire eyes, then Wilson had no doubt that they would have done so. He dug his thumbs into the denim of House's jeans, seeking out the creases between his legs and his groin, and then he started moving them in slow circles as he sank back down to crotch level. The backs of his thumbs touched on House's balls but nothing else of consequence, and House's breath caught, his mouth working like a guppy out of water as he stared back at Wilson.

A respectable bulge built up in response to Wilson's ministrations, and he eventually left off teasing to finish unbuckling House's belt. House's head fell back onto the exam table and the paper crinkled anew as House took fresh fistfuls of it to twist in his fingers. Wilson wasn't really fond of giving blowjobs; if he sucked cock at all, it was in the heat of the moment, and he never took it through to the end. It was just part of the preparation. But for the sake of uncovering House's secret, he could tolerate it. At least it would ensure that he didn't find himself in need of release too. Wilson unzipped House's fly and fished him out through the slit in his boxers. Just the thought of House coming in his mouth made Wilson wilt.

He hesitated too long, apparently, because House spoke again. "You don't have to do that."

"I told you to keep quiet," Wilson snapped. He ducked his head down and sucked the tip of House's cock into his mouth. The bitter taste surprised him; he was usually too preoccupied with his own arousal to notice the unappealing flavor of Cowper's fluid.

"Wilson?"

To shut him up, Wilson dove down and swallowed around House's length, pleased to feel House's legs tense and his pelvis twitch as he stopped himself from bucking with a grunt. Wilson bobbed up and down in a steady rhythm, moving one hand to fondle House's balls, and House panted above him, canting his hips to try to increase the sensations that Wilson offered. He increased the suction and House moaned lowly, his mouth closed to try to block the sound. Wilson glanced up the length of his body to find House's eyes shut, his nostrils flaring with each rapid breath. His reaction was half-hearted, however; Wilson could tell that he wasn't fully invested in this. That irritated Wilson, so he doubled his efforts, shifting his knees on the floor to change the angle.

Sure enough, Wilson's newfound enthusiasm left House breathing raggedly and shivering in an effort not to thrust and choke Wilson. He had tensed his arms so much that his ass only barely rested on the stool, and Wilson sped up, swirling his tongue as his lips slid up House's foreskin.

The hands in Wilson's hair surprised him and he realized that he had closed his eyes. Upon opening them, he found that House had hunched down on the stool and was busy caressing Wilson's head and shoulders, his eyes dark and a bit confused. Wilson shrugged his hands off and kept going, determined to finish. As if to deliberately mock Wilson's efforts, House's cock seemed to lose some of its bulk. Wilson sucked harder to counteract it and rubbed his fingers back against House's anus. House bucked without meaning to, and then the hands showed up on Wilson's shoulders again.

"Wilson, cut it out." House's voice was strained but firm.

Wilson reached up to brush his hands away and flattened his tongue along the underside of House's penis. He deep-throated him again and hummed a bit, but his efforts were again thwarted when House grabbed a handful of his hair and tried to pull him up.

"Stop, Wilson. That's enough." He tugged and Wilson yanked his hand off, but House was already getting too soft for Wilson to keep going. He rubbed more firmly against House's perineum and added more pressure to the finger that rested on the tight ring of muscle behind it. Finally, House made a frustrated sound and said, "You're just making it worse."

Wilson stopped and let House slip from his mouth. He licked his swollen lips and stared at the soft flesh in front of him, unable to raise his eyes. He didn't want to confront whatever expression he might find on his friend's face.

"What the hell were you thinking?" House finally demanded. "I know you hate doing that."

"I don't…know," Wilson admitted. "I thought…I just wanted…"

"Get up." House shoved him back and worked to put himself back together, then labored to his feet while Wilson just sat there, backed up against the cupboards where House had pushed him. Wilson watched House limp around the table to retrieve his cane, and then House made his way to the door with quick steps that had to be hurting his leg. As a parting shot he added, "You're an idiot." Then he flung the door open and stalked out, his uneven footsteps sharp in the empty clinic.

Wilson remained where he was for several minutes and then gathered himself to go home. That was a total disaster. Even so, Wilson refused to give up. He would figure House out eventually.

--TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Several hours later, Wilson got a phone call. He sat up in bed, bleary and sleep-muzzed. Cell phone…his cell phone was buzzing on the night stand. He peered over at the lighted display just in time to watch the phone vibrate itself to the edge of the table and fall off. "Fuck."

Wilson leaned over the side of the bed and groped around on the floor until he found it. Just as he flipped it open to check the missed calls log, his ground line jangled through the apartment. His cell showed a missed call from House and Wilson hurried to grab the phone from his dresser before House gave up on it.

"House, wuz up?"

House's words came softly around jagged breaths. "I need you to come over."

Adrenaline instantly set Wilson's brain fully awake. "What's wrong?"

A hiccup sounded over the line, and then House replied, "My leg… it won't stop..."

"Breakthrough pain?" Wilson was already pulling on a pair of sweats over his sleepwear.

House grunted in the affirmative and then gasped. A thump signaled him dropping the phone and Wilson hurried out to the living room to find his shoes. House came back on the line as Wilson was slipping on his loafers and grabbing his car keys. "Wilson?"

"Still here. Look, I'm gonna hang up and call you back on my cell, okay?"

"Okay." House's voice trailed off and Wilson heard him suck in a sharp breath before the line went dead.

Wilson muttered, "Crap," and threw the cordless receiver on the couch as he pulled his cell phone back out and raced out the door. In the few hours since he had gone to bed, a small blizzard had blown in. The roads were covered in at least three inches of snow and there wasn't a plow in sight. He tried calling House back three times before he gave up and left a message on his home line so that he would hear it no matter where he was in the apartment. "I'm on my way, House. Hang in there. Just a few more minutes." Then he hung up and concentrated on driving.

He stepped into 221B nearly thirty minutes later; the roads were horrible and no one was out clearing them or salting. All the plows were probably busy on the interstate and downtown. Part of Wilson wondered if House were pulling a prank, maybe something to pay him back for his stunt in the clinic, but no. He could hear House in another room, talking to himself, talking himself down.

Wilson hurried through the apartment and noticed light coming from the bathroom. "Hey. I'm coming in," he warned, and then poked his head around the edge of the door. House was bent over his leg next to the tub, still wearing his pajama bottoms, his cell phone on the floor beside him. The bath water was still steaming so he couldn't have been there long.

Wilson crouched down next to him and touched his shoulder. "House? God, I'm so sorry. The roads – "

House drew in a shuddering breath. "Thought you weren't gonna come," he admitted, his head bowed.

Since House probably didn't have energy enough to object at this point, Wilson ran his hand through House's sweaty hair. "I'm not that mean. Did you just get in here?"

House nodded, then clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. His hands dug into the flesh on either side of his scar, bunching the flannel beneath them. A moment later his tensed muscles unwound and he offered, "Tried the heating pad. Not hot enough."

"Why aren't you in the tub then? Did you fall?" House shook his head and breathed harshly through his nose. "Seriously?" House hesitated and then shook his head again. Yes, he had fallen. "Okay. Let's get you in the water."

Wilson slipped his arms under House's and hauled him upright while House hissed and bit his lip and held onto Wilson's shoulders with a death grip. Once he was standing, Wilson pulled at the drawstring on House's sleep pants and then worked them down until House could step out of them with a bit of help. Getting him in the tub proved more difficult, but they managed to get the job done without completely soaking the bathroom floor.

House could only take so much caring in one sitting, so Wilson gathered up the clothes that House had scattered around the room and then said, "I'll be in the living room. Call when you're done."

It was two in the morning but Wilson didn't really feel sleep deprived at the moment. The challenge involved in getting over here had kept him alert, and he continued to ride the adrenaline high as he cleaned up the living room. House had left the heating pad on so Wilson unplugged it and put it back in the closet. He took note of the contents of the pizza box lying on the coffee table as he picked it up and made for the fridge. House had only taken two or three bites of one slice, meaning that the pain had been so bad that the nausea had probably overtaken him several hours ago. Wilson wished that House had called him earlier, but such was not how the great stubborn genius operated.

About half an hour later, Wilson heard the bath water draining. He refrained from going in to see how House was doing; if he needed help, he would call. Or he'd fall flat on his ass. Either way, Wilson would only end up in there if House really needed him, though the latter path involved the risk of blood and broken bones. Thankfully, House managed to get out without maiming himself; Wilson heard him shuffle slowly out into the hall, and then straight into his bedroom.

Wilson waited just long enough for House to make it into bed, and then he shut off all the lights in the rest of the apartment. His shoes already sat near the door and he padded down the hallway without making too much noise, the layout of House's apartment more familiar to him than his own. The light was still on and House was situating himself under the covers when Wilson stepped into the doorway. "Mind if I stay the rest of the night? The roads are crap."

He knew that House would see through that to the part where Wilson was worried and didn't want to leave him alone, but the excuse was more than adequate for once. House nodded and Wilson pulled off his sweats before climbing in on the left side, careful not to jostle the bed too much. "Is it any better?"

House grunted in reply and settled back, leaving Wilson to lean over him and switch off the lamp. They laid there in silence long enough for both of them to realize that they weren't going to drift off any time soon. "Hey, Wilson?"

"Yeah?"

"You still awake?"

"No."

"It's not about dominance."

Wilson glanced over even though he couldn't see anything in the darkness.

"That's what you were testing, isn't it? In the clinic? You were ruling out the whole ordering-me-around part."

"You just figure that out?"

The sheets rustled; House had shrugged. "I was distracted."

"Mm." Wilson stretched and settled a bit more. "So you just like being held down?" No answer. "Why would that embarrass you?"

"Shut up, Wilson."

"I think there's more to it."

"Shut _up_, Wilson."

Wilson rolled onto his side and propped his head up on his hand. "I'm not sleepy. Are you?"

The sheets rustled again and Wilson felt the bed shift as House labored over to face him. "Why? Is this one of those moments where you think we should have a big meaningful conversation and get in touch with our sappy inner selves?"

"Well, I'd like to get in touch with something, yes. I just drove half an hour to get here in the middle of the night, in a snowstorm – "

" – uphill both ways – "

Wilson laughed. "Shut it, you twit. My point is, I would like a little compensation for my troubles."

Silence greeted him, and then House huffed out an uncomfortable breath of air. "I took too many pills for that."

"Oh." Stupid – he should have guessed that. "Um. Sorry." He rolled back onto his back but House stayed where he was. "Maybe in the morning, then." The bed tipped and Wilson felt long, calloused fingers twitter over his stomach. "Um…you don't have to. I mean, it's not a big deal – "

"Can it."

House's fingers continued dancing across Wilson's abdomen, and he surrendered to them. If House felt okay doing this, Wilson certainly wasn't going to stop him. The man could do some criminal things with his hands. House's fingers made it to Wilson's boxers, and then he pressed down over Wilson's groin. "Ahhhhhhh." Wilson raised his arms over his head and grasped his pillow, content to let House do whatever he wanted for the moment. "That's nice."

"Mmm." House shifted closer and continued rubbing his palm in practiced circles between Wilson's legs.

Wilson flexed his back and spread his legs further, pressing his head into his pillow. A smile worked its way onto his face, hidden by the shadows. In his opinion, it didn't get much better than this: a comfy bed on a cold night, the musk of House all around him, and a pleasant tingling in his groin. Nothing urgent, just a lazy sort of warmth to spread through his belly and leave his spine curled the slightest bit.

The fingers clenched suddenly and then House withdrew with a sharp curse. The bed bounced as he flopped back.

Wilson struggled to sit up and find the lamp on his side. A soft glow bathed the room and he looked over to find House rolled up on his side with his forehead pressed to his right knee. "You idiot," Wilson muttered, though he couldn't make himself sound anything other than sympathetic. "I'll get the morphine."

"Sorry," House gasped as Wilson threw back the blankets.

"Not your fault," Wilson told him. He left the room and came back a minute later with the gray metal box that House kept atop his bookshelf. He was pleased to find it coated in a thick layer of dust; House had not found need for it recently. "Give me your arm, and a number."

"Maybe a seven," House rasped, unfolding his left arm and stretching it out for Wilson. "It's not so bad."

"Only you could lay there and say that a seven isn't so bad," Wilson muttered. "I worry about you. Do you even know what your baseline is any more?"

"Four or five," House replied without hesitation.

Wilson paused with the syringe in the bottle of morphine. "That's a _baseline_?"

"Are you gonna gimme that?" House asked, pointing to the morphine with one of the fingers still wrapped around his thigh.

Wilson finished drawing up a half-dose and leaned over House's arm. Veins stood out all over the place; he didn't need a tourniquet. "You should eat better."

"I'll get right on it."

With a sigh, Wilson pierced his skin and injected the morphine, then monitored his pulse for a minute before returning everything but the needle to the metal box. "Do you have a sharps container?"

House let out a relaxed breath, his eyes drooping, and slurred. "Big pickle jar under the sink."

"'kay." Wilson shuffled out again and disposed of the needle. On his way back, he snagged a piece of pizza from the fridge and stood over the sink to scarf it down. Interrupted nights always left him starving. As a doctor, he knew that the stomach growling was a false signal from his brain in response to broken to sleep, but he ate the pizza anyway. Who would care? House only teased him about his soft middle because he couldn't admit that he liked it.

House had drifted off by the time Wilson returned, and he climbed in without worrying about waking him. With the light off again and the covers spread over them both, Wilson dared to indulge his fondness for snuggling. House certainly didn't like being treated like a teddy bear, but he was stoned and unconscious. Wilson draped his leg over House's good one and threaded his arm across House's chest, his chin resting just above House's shoulder. He fell asleep like that, sharing House's pillow and wondering why they couldn't do this when House was lucid.

* * *

Wilson woke perhaps three hours later, his stomach pressed up against House's back. House grumbled in his sleep, which was probably what had woken Wilson. Morphine tended to make him dream more actively. A few soft words was all it took to quiet him back down and Wilson pulled him closer, angling himself to better fit around House's body. He liked this – spooning. House never seemed okay with letting him do it, though; he had actually said once that it implied that they had "a thing." That had sort of confused Wilson, and hurt him a bit. They _did_ have a thing. With or without the sexual aspect, they had a very long-standing thing.

"Mmph. Wilson?"

Damn. He'd been caught. "Yeah, House."

"Whader you doin'?"

Wilson lifted his head and rested it on House's shoulder. "Are you awake?"

House mumbled, "I dunno," and then his breathing evened out and he purred on his next exhale. His hand somehow found Wilson's, though, where it rested on House's stomach. House interlaced their fingers and turned a bit further into the pillow, then went perfectly still.

Wilson smiled and hugged him before settling back down, his hand ensconced in House's. He needed to find a way to make this commonplace – this exchange of affection. Long years of friendship had hidden House's softer side from Wilson, but he was starting to see what women like Stacy had seen in him. It was endearing, the way House shied from displays of fondness, as if he feared rejection too much to risk showing that he cared even the slightest bit. It also made Wilson sad. Nobody should have to fear so much.

An hour later, House started awake, elbowing Wilson in the ribs in the process. It was just as well; Wilson needed to get up in another hour anyway to start preparing for work, and House was probably allergic to spooning. They needed to separate before he broke out in hives. Wilson untangled himself and sat up, rubbing his side, while House blinked and grumbled low in the back of his throat as he tried to remember what the hell was going on.

"It's early," Wilson said. He scooted to the edge of the bed, leaving the covers behind. "Go back to sleep. I promise I won't clip or blow dry anything."

House snuffed and cast a bleary gaze over his shoulder. "You didn't go home?"

Wilson gave him a funny look. "Why would I? The roads sucked and I'd just given you morphine."

"Oh." House itched his nose before laboring to sit up and swing his bad leg to the floor.

"You don't remember that conversation?" Wilson asked. He meant it to be rhetorical but House answered.

"I remember you showing up. I dunno. Don't remember the morphine."

Wilson turned in the doorway to stare at him. "House…I was here for an hour before I gave you the morphine." He stepped closer. "Did you hit your head when you fell in the bathroom? I didn't even think to ask. I was more worried about your leg."

House looked down, his eyes shut, and then shook his head. "I don't think so."

"You had your cell phone with you when I came in…do you remember me trying to call you back?" When House nodded, Wilson asked, "Why didn't you pick up?"

"I don't…know."

Wilson narrowed his eyes and stepped around to stand in front of House where he remained perched on the edge of the bed with his feet brushing the floor. "What aren't you telling me?"

House shook his head again. "Did I call you?"

That gave Wilson pause and he began worrying in earnest. "Yeah. You said your leg wouldn't stop hurting. You asked me to come over." He knelt down on the floor in order to catch House's eye. "You don't remember any of that?"

In lieu of admitting that he didn't, House glanced away and then stared at his hands for a second. "It's not a big deal. Retrograde amnesia…I must have concussed or something. Couldn't be too serious; I'm still talking and breathing."

Wilson took a moment to berate himself for giving an opiate to a man with a concussion and knocking him out, then stood up to feel around House's head. "I don't – oh." He ran his fingers over the base of House's skull again, near the back of his neck, and House winced. "Yeah, you banged yourself up pretty good."

House grunted and felt the goose egg for himself. "Damn."

"We should get a CT just to be safe, but you're probably fine by now." Wilson stretched the crick from his back and headed for the bathroom again, calling over his shoulder, "Remind me next time not to underestimate your ability to cause yourself harm."

House smirked and left off toying with his new lump. "I wouldn't have to if you just stayed here all the time."

Wilson stopped on the threshold again and looked back. House had clammed up upon realizing his slip and Wilson didn't know if he should comment on it or not. Eventually, he had to ask, "What, like…move in?"

"No," House rushed to say, and then he reached to fumble on the nightstand for his pills.

Wilson watched him for a second but decided not to press the subject. The slip in itself was a step in the right direction; Wilson could be patient. In the mean time, he shuffled off to get ready for work.

* * *

They walked into PPTH just far enough apart that it didn't seem as if they had arrived together. Wilson only noticed it after House caught up to him at the reception desk and pointed it out, but he saw no need to comment on it. He accepted a stack of pink message slips and wandered in the direction of the elevator, glancing back to see House accept a few messages himself.

They stood reading them as they waited for the carriage, and then House swore and dug around in his jacket pocket for his cell phone. Wilson regarded him curiously and held the elevator doors open so that he could limp inside with his cane hooked over his arm while he dialed. The other party must have picked up because House exploded with, "You're an idiot if you think that's just gonna disappear."

Wilson glanced at him and pressed the button for the fourth floor. "You're gonna lose the call."

"No, I'm not," House barked. Wilson thought House was talking to him until he added, "If I were, I wouldn't bother pointing out that the stranding indicates – yeah, I looked at your damn slides. They were crap. Do you even know what resolution is?"

The elevator dinged and House turned sideways to get out before the doors had even opened all the way. Wilson followed at a more sedate pace, intrigued. He could see all the fellows in the Diagnostics conference room with Foreman, and none of them were on their phones. Who was House talking to?

"I told you to get a biopsy." House made an irritated face at the phone and seemed to restrain himself from flinging it down the hall. "Fine. You go ahead and irradiate him, just send me a postcard when the infection that you misdiagnosed finally kills him. I want to throw an I-told-you-so party and dance naked around the bonfire of your career going up in flames." House paused as the other party said something. "You really think I won't?" He laughed, but it was a mean laugh. "You do that. I'll schedule in some time to give a crap next week."

Wilson watched as House stabbed the disconnect and flipped his phone closed. "Was that a consult?"

"Are you critiquing my technique?" House hobbled to his office and pushed the glass door open. He didn't bother holding it for Wilson, but Wilson didn't expect him to. It was just one of those things about House that he had become inured to over the years.

"No, I was actually going to say that you seemed nicer than usual," Wilson replied, tongue-in-cheek. "Seriously – I didn't think you gave consults."

"No choice," House said. "The guy's a moron." As if that explained everything.

"Right." Wilson turned to go, but threw over his shoulder, "I'll schedule the CT for noon. You can get it on your lunch hour."

From the hallway, he heard House yell, "I'm not using my own time for that crap. Schedule it during my clinic hours."

Wilson waved a hand in dismissal and kept going, puzzling over the phenomenon of Gregory House voluntarily giving someone a consult.

* * *

The CT indicated very minor swelling and Wilson wrote it off as a near miss. As for the consult that he had overheard, Wilson soon learned that House was now busy ruining the career of some poor doctor in Indiana over the misdiagnosis that he had alluded to on the phone. As dysfunctional as House's behavior was, Wilson had to smile when Cuddy told him about it. House couldn't just sit back and let the mystery patient die, which was part of the reason Wilson refused when Cuddy begged him to find a way to stop House from reporting the guy for negligence and then trashing him on a dozen message boards and medical journal websites. That was part of the risk that one assumed when asking for House's opinion on a case. Anyone who knew him well enough to send a consult request knew that they did so on pain of professional humiliation, or worse. The worse being that House invariably turned out to be right in the instances where he took such extreme measures. Whoever that other doctor was, his career was toast.

Around four o'clock, Wilson found House in the clinic, reluctantly tending to a mob of flu-sufferers with unsympathetic admonitions to get some chicken soup and a bottle of Tylenol, and quit whining. He wondered when House's antics had started to amuse him instead of irritate him or make him cringe. A year ago, he would have tried to save patients from House's acerbic tongue and mitigate any complaints that they may have wanted to make to the hospital administrators. Maybe it had something to do with how well acquainted Wilson had become with said tongue and all the things it could do to him. That, of course, led him to wonder if his judgment concerning House was compromised, and if so, the ethics involved in remaining his prescribing physician could become tricky. He shrugged it off for later contemplation and stepped out of the way as yet another indignant patient stomped out of House's exam room. It was hard not to be amused.

They left together at five and climbed into Wilson's Volvo, though Wilson left the car off for a moment. House fiddled with his cane until he realized that Wilson was just sitting there. "It's cold, you know. Heat would fix that."

"I need more than this," Wilson blurted out.

House froze in his seat, his fingers immobile on the head of his cane. When Wilson said nothing more, House turned his head, his face blank in a way that betrayed some pale brand of panic.

Wilson stared back at him, awaiting a comment or a snide remark. Nothing came and he berated himself for an idiot. He didn't want to scare House off, just…hell. He didn't even know what. In order to salvage the moment, he relented and twisted that statement to a new meaning. "I just need you to talk to me once in a while."

House appeared suspicious, but he played along. "About what?"

"Well…" Wilson fumbled for an example and finally settled on, "Anything. For instance, what the hell happened the other night? Why won't you just – "

"Why won't _you_ just let it be?"

Wilson started and glanced over. House was staring out the window, his left hand gripped tightly around his cane while he absently massaged his leg with the other. "How long have you been giving consults?"

"What?" House turned to glare at the abrupt subject change. "I'm a doctor. I give consults all the time."

"Secret consults?" Wilson challenged.

House's eyes narrowed. "What, I'm supposed to report to you every time I do my job?"

"Well – I…no." Wilson leaned back against his door and regretted opening his big mouth. He had no idea how to stop this from escalating now; House knew what he really meant by demanding more, and this argument was just an outlet for his anger at Wilson for having said it. "Can we just forget it?"

"Fine."

Wilson nodded in relief and went to start the car before he realized that House had opened the door and was in the process of levering himself to his feet. "Where are you going?"

"Home," House sniped back. "Without you."

The car door slammed behind him and Wilson muttered, "Shit," as he considered whether or not to go after House. He watched House try to storm across the parking lot without slipping in the slush, and then shut his eyes as House slowed down to watch his footing. That decided him; he switched the car off and lumbered back up onto his weary feet to slog across the lot in House's wake. "You're gonna break something."

"Good thing I'm at a hospital, then." His balance upset itself and House caught himself against someone's car, which immediately started blaring. After righting himself, he kept going, headed in the direction of the bus stop. The car alarm continued to annoy everyone in a two mile radius.

"House, quit being a martyr. I'll drive you home."

House stopped and wheeled around, nearly slipping again. "Wow, Pot. I hardly recognized you."

"I'll drive you home," Wilson repeated, motioning back to his Volvo.

House's gaze alternated between the bus that had just turned onto the hospital lane, and Wilson's car. Wilson knew that he was thinking about the drafts on the bus and what they would do to his leg, and weighing that against putting up with some sort of lecture from Wilson.

"I'll even keep quiet. You can pretend you're alone on the bus."

House's nostrils flared and he started walking back toward Wilson, his limp heavy and obvious on the treacherous ground. "You're a pain in the ass."

"I thought you liked that aspect of our friendship."

The unexpected joke made House snort and he shot Wilson an apologetic look. That was all Wilson would get as far as making up after an argument went, so he grinned back.

Wilson drove in silence, as promised, though he itched to say something to break the tension between them. When he pulled up in front of 221B, House unbuckled his seat belt and reached for the door handle without so much as a see-you-later. Wilson snatched his wrist before he could open it and House gave him a surprised look. In response to that, Wilson let go of his wrist in favor of running his hand up House's thigh, dipping between his legs and coming to rest just short of his groin.

House leaned back in the seat and took a shaky breath. "Do you just like messing with me?"

"I'm not messing with you." Wilson nudged his hand higher, and then pulled away and settled back in his own seat.

"Could've fooled me." He shifted in his seat and Wilson fought back a self-satisfied smirk. "So…you're just gonna tease me and then drive off?"

Wilson shrugged. "Sounds like a plan. Catch you later." He turned and gave House an expectant look.

Two minutes later, House had dragged Wilson through the foyer and into the apartment, probably loudly enough that half the building could guess at what they were doing, but Wilson didn't really care for once. Wilson slammed the apartment door and then shoved House against it to attack his mouth again and grope him with unforgiving hands. House grunted at the rough treatment and then Wilson found himself backed up against the desk with House leaning his full weight forward to pin Wilson in place. Wilson grabbed the edges of the desk to steady himself and House's hands enveloped them, holding them down against the cool wood. His grip was harsh and Wilson tried in vain to free himself. After a minute, he gave in because he didn't want to accidentally hurt House by struggling.

When Wilson went limp against the desk, House's temper seemed to flare up. He bit Wilson's neck hard enough to make him flinch and yelp, and then House pressed his mouth up against Wilson's ear, raking stubble across his cheek to growl, "Fight me."

Wilson twitched at the words and his eyes widened. They had never done anything like that, not explicitly. Yes, they were often rough with each other, but House had never hinted that he wanted…

Wilson arched and shoved his hips into House, knocking him back a few inches. That was all the space that Wilson needed and he hooked his leg around House's bad one, careful not to knee his thigh but still insistent in yanking him off balance. He caught at House's arms as he staggered, and then they were stumbling down the hallway, Wilson's arms around House's waist and House trying to hold himself up using the wall. When they hit the bed they both went down in a heap and Wilson gasped as House settled on top of him, crushing the air from his lungs. The intensity on House's face was almost frightening; he seemed cold as he moved to grab at Wilson's wrists and hold him down against the mattress. The implication of violence definitely churned Wilson's stomach, but only because he was on the receiving end. The thought of turning the tables on House sent every bit of blood and intent careening southward, and Wilson felt his erection swell to painful proportions.

House ducked his head down to nip and suck a brutal line just above Wilson's collar, and Wilson arched into it even though he was terrified of the power that House had over him in this position. Pleasure and fear mixed in him to produce the most confusingly erotic sensations he had ever experienced, and his instincts made him buck and struggle to throw House off and free his hands. House responded by leaning harder on Wilson's forearms, until he felt the circulation constrict and set his fingers tingling. The teeth on Wilson's neck sharpened and moved down to gnaw on his chest through his dress shirt. Wilson tried to stop himself from crying out but couldn't, and then House found a nipple and sank his teeth in.

"_Sh-hit!_ Ahhhmph." Wilson's back lifted off the bed as he bent into House's mouth despite the pain, and he finally felt the hardness pressed against his abdomen where House straddled him, canted to the left to save his bad leg as much discomfort as possible.

Spurred on by that, Wilson threw his lower body up against House and flipped him off to the side. A scramble ensued as House intercepted Wilson's attempted lunge. Somehow, Wilson ended up on his knees between House's legs with his thighs shoved up under House's, leaning forward over House's body as House threw himself back into the mattress and wrapped his legs around Wilson's waist, his pelvis angled up against Wilson's groin.

Wilson bent down to capture House's mouth, shoving House's thighs farther up toward his body in the process, and House's legs tightened around him. Their tongues dueled around frantic lips and teeth, and Wilson shimmied forward on his knees until House's ass rested on his thighs. This was a new position – hell, a new situation all together – and Wilson's body flushed in arousal at the feel of long legs cinched about him, and House's fingers bent like claws against his shoulder blades.

Wilson wrenched House's shirt up to expose the soft flesh of his abdomen, and then bent double to run his mouth over it, tracing ribs and the bullet scar, and then moving back up to nibble at the hollow of his throat. He ran his hands down House's flanks and around to cup his ass before attacking House's belt and jeans. His own pants stretched too snuggly over his erection but he ignored it in favor of getting House as exposed as he could without relinquishing his position. House tried to help by wrenching at the knot in Wilson's tie and then shoving buttons through holes to get his dress shirt off.

Wilson paused after unbuttoning House's jeans and reached to take his tie the rest of the way off. He had been going through ties left and right lately, not because he and House were ruining them but because Wilson couldn't wear them without anticipating the next alternate use for his neckwear, and that made it difficult to leave his apartment without carrying his coat folded over his arm to hide his pants from view. Once Wilson slid the silk free of his collar, House pushed Wilson's shirt off his shoulders and yanked the tails from his waistband. Wilson let him drag his undershirt up as well and then pull them both over his head, sending static and sparks flying through the dry air. Then he let his upper body rest on top of House's, lined their groins up, and thrust. Hard.

House jumped beneath him and arched, slamming his head back against the pillows and gritting his teeth. "_Nnngh_." His fingers latched onto Wilson's elbows for lack of anything more easily accessible, and his hips impacted Wilson's with force enough to jostle him.

Only House's legs, which clamped more securely around his middle, kept him from falling back, and House dug his heels in against Wilson's ass to draw him closer. There was no space between them as it was, but the increased pressure against Wilson's groin felt incredible. While House was distracted, Wilson reached for his arm and made a loop of his tie. As soon as House felt the binding on his wrist, he fought to keep Wilson from knotting the silk. Wilson grinned and trapped House's arm against his chest so that he could concentrate on grabbing hold of House's other hand.

House evaded him and reached for Wilson's hair, dragging him down for another hungry kiss. Wilson obliged to save himself from losing it at the roots. He started lightly thrusting at a gentle, slow pace. The softness of his motions seemed to frustrate House and he bucked angrily against Wilson's body until Wilson managed to pry his fingers from his hair and shove both of House's hands into the mattress above his head.

House's spine curved violently to follow the movement. "Hmph…Wilson…_nhg!_…oh god, please…" His heels pressed harder into Wilson's buttocks and he shoved back against Wilson's cock even though their lower bodies were still clothed. He shifted himself to rub against the inside of his jeans, desperate for friction. "_Please_, Wilson."

Okay. House begging was about the hottest thing Wilson could imagine, and it was better than any fantasy he could have cooked up in his most feverish wet dreams. Wilson actually growled in response and House whimpered at that, his eyes shut and his lips parted in need. There was no resistance to Wilson wrapping his tie around House's wrists this time. He looped the silk three times and then pulled it as tight as he could, painfully aware of House nearly sobbing in ecstasy as the material bit into his skin. Wilson knotted the ends and then leaned up toward the bed post, dragging House's bound hands with him.

House opened his eyes and craned his neck to see what Wilson was doing, then gasped and moaned as he realized that Wilson was tying him to the bedpost. "Yesss…" House's breath ran out and he hissed, arching for no reason other than he couldn't help himself. "Oh god, yes…_mmph._" His jaw fell open and he shoved his hips up as Wilson finished trussing him to the bed and shifted to rake his fingernails over House's chest. Wilson caught a nipple on his way down and House jerked beneath him, his arms straining against his bonds. "_Nnnnnghh!_"

Wilson dropped his head to suckle at House's neck, then drew a jagged, wet line across his carotid until he met that special patch of skin behind House's ear. House writhed and tried to lift his hips but Wilson's position, stretched over his body, prevented that sort of movement. It made House struggle harder; he tensed and pulled against the tie hard enough to knock the headboard back against the wall. Wilson took that as impetus to drive him toward new heights of distraction, and his hands worked their ways into House's jeans without unzipping them while he continued laving House's neck and throat with bites and swirls of his tongue.

House gritted his teeth and bared his neck as much as he could, begging for more attention from Wilson's mouth. Wilson's hands snaked into the confined spaces of House's jeans until they encountered House's cock pressed into the constricting cloth of his boxers. Wilson flattened his palm against the underside of House's penis and began to stroke up and down, his fingers drifting to either side of his shaft, moving to encompass as much of House's length as he could within the confines of damp, hot denim. House jerked and convulsed in an effort to thrust, and his inability to do so served to further enflame him.

"So hot," Wilson muttered against House's ear as he increased the tempo of his own thrusts, rocking against House's ass as if they were both naked already. "So – _nnnnn_ – can't believe it..." His closed his fingers around House's length and reveled in the broken cry that followed, shoving up against House hard enough to move his entire body closer to the headboard. "Oh god, why didn't you just tell me before?"

House didn't answer coherently. His breath hitched as Wilson rolled his hips at an ever more urgent speed, increasing the force with each thrust. Wilson didn't think he could stop at this point; he wanted to be inside, encased in hot flesh, but the way House struggled just to move drove his reason from him, and those hiccups that came out every few times House tried to inhale…so incredibly erotic. So unlike House, and hotter than hell.

Wilson snatched his hands out of House's jeans and leaned forward, covering House's body with his own. He shoved his arms under House's torso to grip his shoulders from behind, and buried his face in the crook of House's neck. He could feel the hardness pressing against his stomach as he curled over House's body, trapping House's groin between them in a sheath of cloth and frenzied movement. House's legs stayed firmly pressed around Wilson's waist and Wilson panted into House's neck as his abdominal muscles clenched and flexed, over and over, hurtling them both forward at a reckless pace.

Wilson tried to stop – he really did. He wanted their clothes off, he wanted to feel House's body rippling and pulsing all around his cock, he wanted to hear the delicious moans that he knew he could force from House's lips, but the need for release drove him faster and harder than he could bear. House's body shuddered and tensed beneath him and he heard the headboard hit the wall again as House wrenched his arms toward Wilson in an aborted attempt to seize some part of him. Wilson grunted against House's neck and then turned his head to mouth at the skin there, unraveling even as he bit and started to shake, every muscle in his body strained and rigid and flooded with bliss.

House yelped as Wilson's teeth sank into his shoulder, and then they were both wheezing for breath and jerking against each other, mindless with pleasure and quaking with the desperation to make it last as long as possible without killing themselves in the process. Wilson heard himself moaning around the skin between his teeth and his body felt seared by white heat. He had thought that the previous wave was it, but it turned out to be a mere shadow in the build up to actual release. Pleasure exploded in the base of his spine and spread through his belly to encase his cock in an intense burst of the most exquisite heat. He went rigid as it swept through him and stole his breath, sending his body into paroxysms of something so close to pain that he pressed his face into House's shoulder in a desperate attempt to silence himself. And then orgasm ripped through him and he emptied himself with such violence that he thought he might pass out or die or simply never find his sanity again.

They laid there without moving for a good five minutes, gulping in oxygen as if they had just surfaced from a deep sea dive without oxygen tanks. Wilson could feel House's pulse pounding against his cheek and he managed to turn his head enough to examine the place he had bitten. Blood had welled up beneath the surface of the skin but had not broken through. Wilson placed a tender kiss over the ill-treated flesh and then lifted his head to find House's mouth. They pressed their lips together, lazy and sated, stubble brushing against smooth skin.

Finally, Wilson drew back, and House unhooked his ankles and let his legs slide to the bed on either side of Wilson. "Oh," House mumbled, licking his lips. His eyes slid closed and he sank back against the blankets and pillows, still recovering. That was all he seemed capable of saying at the moment and Wilson raised himself up to reach the knots at House's wrists. He had pulled them so tight that Wilson couldn't dig his fingernails in far enough to get the knots out.

Wilson fumbled in the nightstand drawer and came up with a pair of scissors – surgical scissors, typical House – and cut through the silk to free him. Angry bruises and chafe marks colored rings around his wrists and Wilson took one of his hands to examine them.

House lifted his head and peered at his hands. "Oh, damn." His voice sounded weak still, too breathy and off pitch.

"Sorry," Wilson said.

"No, I don't mind." House ran the fingers of his left hand over the bruises on his right. "That was…"

Wilson nodded and scooted backwards to untangle himself from House's body. "Yeah, it was."

"Hafta wear long sleeves for a while," House mumbled, falling back, boneless. His breath rumbled out in a contented purr and he smiled, completely un-self-conscious. "Gotta clean up."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed, but he flopped onto his back and stayed there for another minute, his limbs wobbly and still shaking from the aftereffects. He didn't trust himself to walk at the moment. "Fuck it," he muttered, and they both managed to fall asleep without a further thought.

--TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson woke up alone in House's bed sometime after midnight. He could hear the television turned down low in the living room, tinny conversation interspersed with the crinkle of magazine pages. Insomnia strikes again. And if House couldn't sleep, then neither could Wilson. Not even returning to his own apartment would save him from House on a pathological adrenaline bender.

It took Wilson a good fifteen minutes to clean himself up. Afterwards, he borrowed an old t-shirt and a pair of House's flannel sleep pants, but he stopped short of wearing any of House's boxers. It wasn't a big deal; he had plenty of time to throw his soiled clothes into the washer along with some of House's riper t-shirts. He would be able to wear them back to his own place in the morning. Until then, the flannel felt kind of nice against his unrestrained privates, soft and warm. And House would definitely notice him hanging loose. That was almost incentive enough all on its own.

Wilson sauntered into the living room and paused at the arm of the couch, his hands on his hips in the hopes of drawing House's gaze to his obvious lack of undergarments. The dim light from an old Twilight Zone episode painted flickers of shadow across House's bare chest and blue striped sleep pants. "Hey."

"Hey," House muttered without glancing up from the medical journal spread across his lap.

Wilson swallowed his disappointment and shuffled over to sit next to him. "I'm guessing you won't sleep any more tonight."

House shrugged and pawed at the journal before looking at his own hand and then placing it deliberately back on the cushion beside himself. "I might."

Wilson watched him make another abortive attempt to rub at his leg through the thick pages of JAMA. So it wasn't adrenaline keeping him up; it was his leg again. The journal seemed to serve the dual purpose of distracting him and blocking his hand from his thigh. Wilson refrained from asking about the recalcitrant limb; he didn't feel like weathering the storm that would follow. "Hungry? I could make something, assuming there's food here."

"Already had a sandwich." House pressed the heel of his hand into the journal and then snatched it back again with a sigh.

Wilson could only remain silent for so long before his desire to care overrode his common sense. "Can I do something to help with that?" He indicated House's leg with one casual finger and a set of raised eyebrows. A glare answered him and House flung the medical journal onto the coffee table. Wilson sighed and refrained from watching him try to lever himself upright. "It wouldn't kill you to let me help once in a while."

"I let you help all the time," House sniped as he finally gained his feet. He limped off to the kitchen, his left foot slapping against the floor as he hurried to remove weight from his right. A second later, he came back and walked behind the couch to the piano. Wilson tipped his head back as House leaned on the lacquered lid, pivoted, and walked back to the kitchen. So…it was going to be one of _those_ nights.

Over the course of the next hour, House yelled at him a few times to go home or go to bed or just go away, but Wilson had grown adept at completely ignoring his achy-leg-snark. After a while, House stopped talking in favor of taking labored breaths, and Wilson watched the sweat break out across his bare back as he paced, back and forth, his steps progressively heavier as the night wore on. Wilson wasn't sure when the pacing stopped, but at some point, he realized that he had nodded off and that House was sprawled in his arm chair with his feet up on the coffee table, drooling as he slept.

"Thank god," Wilson muttered, turning to stretch out across the couch cushions. He fell asleep again with little further thought.

* * *

Only a hint of morning light made its way through Wilson's lids to assault his pupils. He shifted on the couch, warm and content, and slightly tingly. He settled back, then grumbled deep in his chest and cracked an eye open. Oh. That explained the tingle. House was perched on the edge of the couch beside Wilson's knees, running his hands over Wilson's thighs and groin. Wilson smiled and his eyes slid shut again. It had been quite a while since House had woken him up this way. In fact, the last time may have been the morning after the first time – House's way of making it impossible for Wilson to freak out or blame the previous night on alcohol or bad judgment by trapping him between a hand and the couch.

The warmth spread to Wilson's belly and he yawned, raising his arms above his head to grasp the arm of the couch. House increased the pressure below and cupped Wilson through the flannel sleep pants. The pads of his fingers continued to move, though, and Wilson flexed to arch his back just a bit, like a lazy cat in the sun. He thought he heard House make a happy sound about that, maybe a chuckle, but Wilson couldn't devote enough brain cells to figuring it out for certain. House's other hand was peeling back the elastic waistband and slipping inside, and Wilson let out a soft, sleepy moan.

"Lift," House ordered, and smacked Wilson's hip. Wilson grunted at the sharp slap but raised his hips so that House could slip the pants down to Wilson's knees. Cool air hit Wilson's cock and he inhaled sharply, impatient for the warmth of House's hands.

The short delay proved unbelievably worth it when Wilson received not hands, but House's mouth. "_Oh_mygod," Wilson gasped. House nibbled at the base of Wilson's cock, soft lips and wet tongue and suction lapping a path down to Wilson's balls. House gently mouthed his testicles and Wilson gripped the armrest above his head, arched up to press his groin against House's lips. He shifted to spread his legs farther apart and swore that he could feel House's mouth curl up in a smile against the inside of his thigh. The rough scrape of stubble felt wonderful against the sensitive skin between Wilson's legs; he fought an impulse to rub his leg against House's face, and moaned instead.

"Comfortable?" House asked.

Wilson settled his hips back down and lifted his head to glare at the smirk on House's face. "You are _not_ finished."

"Ooo. Cranky." House shot him his most infuriatingly smug look, and then leaned back down to nose Wilson's crotch. "I'll bet you're not half as vanilla as you think."

Each word sent a puff of moist breath to brush over the damp head of Wilson's cock, and he shuddered. "Whatever. Just do something."

"In fact," House continued, and Wilson groaned in frustration. "I think, based on the last couple of days, that your imagination might be just as dirty as mine."

Wilson couldn't help but snort at that, though his voice was breathy. "Not possible. I've seen your porn stash."

"Good," House chirped, and seized Wilson's hips to hold him in place. Wilson jerked and peered down the length of his body at House, not quite as eager as he had been. "Then you'll know all about this."

"House?" Wilson warned.

"Relax." House turned to face Wilson and lifted Wilson's left leg so that he could duck under it.

Curiosity got the better of Wilson, but House in a creative mood could be dangerous, figuratively speaking. "Okay…what are you doing?" He settled his left leg on House's lap. At House's insistence, he also shimmied farther down the couch and angled his crotch to face him. "Seriously."

House gave him his best _who, me?_ Look, and then bent far enough to swallow Wilson in one go.

"Ohhh-hhho…!" Wilson flopped back and grabbed at the couch cushion to anchor himself as his breath ran out and he tried to remember how to inhale. He reached over his head with his right hand to seize the couch arm again. "You…_wow_…"

House grinned around Wilson's cock and Wilson swore he could feel the playful evil in it. Not that evil was a bad thing, just… Forget it. Wilson couldn't think anymore. His breath caught as House's throat contracted around him, and –

"Oh – my_god_ – _mmm_." Wilson shivered in an effort not to buck but he couldn't hold back. House's hands kept his hips pinned down on the couch, though, and he hummed and chuckled all around Wilson's cock. "Stop…_laughing_, you bastard!" Wilson rasped. It wasn't that House's glee bothered him, it was just that the feel of it, deep in House's throat where Wilson's tip knocked against it…holy shit. "_Nngh!_"

A few seconds later, House let Wilson's length slip from his mouth, but slowly, his tongue pressed flat against the underside and his cheeks suctioned all around it. He didn't sit up, though – Wilson may have become homicidal if he had. Instead, he hooked his right arm under Wilson's left leg and shoved it up until his calf rested on House's shoulder. Then he tongued Wilson's groin for a little bit, scraping his teeth ever-so-lightly over Wilson's inner thighs, then the underside of his cock, and then he went lower…low enough to swipe his tongue back and forth over the tight ring of Wilson's anus.

"Ohhhhh…kay." If it weren't such an incredible feeling, Wilson would take a moment to be disgusted by the thought of it. There was just no way to object, though – not now. Not while House was fixing his lips over the skin there to suck on it like a piece of candy, not while he parted Wilson's cheeks further with his fingers and then shoved his tongue _in_.

Wilson sucked in a harsh breath, his eyes open wide, and then he whimpered and clutched at the couch for all he was worth, desperate for more and shocked by what House was doing. He could feel the tip of House's tongue inside of him, swirling and poking and tasting, and –

"Oh…shit, oh, _shit! _Fuck – _nngh…hhhhgmp!_" Wilson's spine curved violently and he slipped his left leg forward until he could crook his knee over House's shoulder. He dug his heel in against House's spine and pressed the back of his head into the cushion, his right arm flung over the back of the couch and his left curled over his head to dig at the armrest. "Yesyes…_yes_…hhoh – _god_, yes!" Wilson could feel House chuckling again – his tongue vibrated somehow against the interior nerves of Wilson's rectum, and Wilson's entire body spasmed at the sensation. He never would have thought that a tongue could feel so different than a finger in there, but _holy_ god – there was no comparison. And House's tongue was unnaturally gifted in the art of contortionism.

Wilson barely realized the moment he started bucking up into the bare air, trying in vain to shove himself back against House's tongue to get more pressure, more depth. House seemed to take pity on him, though, because he pulled his head back and replaced his tongue with two fingers. Wilson's hips jerked of their own accord, and then House bent Wilson's body down to flatten him back against the couch. His fingers worked in and out and Wilson fought to breathe when House's mouth engulfed him again. His lungs seized halfway through every inhalation and he squinched his eyes shut, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Wilson could hear himself whimpering and moaning from miles away, and his chin jutted into the air as he arched his neck. It took him a moment to realize that House wouldn't kiss him there because his lips were busy elsewhere. It left him feeling a little colder than he should. Wilson missed the sensation of House's body covering him, of having that weight settled over his chest, of feeling smothered by House's presence. This felt wonderful but impersonal. Wilson expected this sort of treatment from a girlfriend, but for some reason, coming from House, it seemed cheap.

That didn't stop Wilson from thrusting upwards, however, when House's free hand moved to the back of Wilson's thigh to draw him farther in. Wilson felt him swallowing again, taking him deeper, and then humming an indeterminate tune as Wilson's cock brushed the back of his throat. Wilson's leg was still hooked over House's shoulder and he pulled House's body closer, agonizingly aware of the fingers that continued to nudge his prostate with surgical precision.

When House changed his pitch to hum a note that vibrated at a higher frequency, Wilson cried out and grabbed House's hair. Wilson felt House flinch under his hand but he didn't try to withdraw. This enticed Wilson to hold him down on his cock by force, and though House's throat constricted as he fought not to choke, he didn't attempt to pull away. If anything, he tried to increase the suction and the motions of his tongue in the confined space between his cheeks and Wilson's penis. The humming grew louder, and consequently more intense along Wilson's length. Wilson tugged House up a few inches, his fingers tangled in House's hair, and then he pumped up into the wet heat of House's mouth.

House allowed him to do it again, and the next thing Wilson knew, he was hanging onto House's hair with both hands, his legs wantonly spread with one foot planted on the floor for leverage as he rolled his hips and worked himself between House's mouth and the fingers in his ass. God, he missed the feel of House stimulating his prostate; he didn't top nearly as often as Wilson wanted him to, on account of the difficulty posed by his leg. But when House _did_ top…Wilson felt the flush spread through his body just at the memories he conjured up of House's body laid out along Wilson's, slamming into him from behind, his fingers curled around Wilson's shoulders to hold him in place…

Wilson clenched his teeth and grunted as the pressure built in the base of his spine and then rushed outward on a wave that threw Wilson back against the couch, his back arched almost painfully. House's throat clenched on Wilson's cockhead and then rippled as he swallowed, shoving Wilson to a new height as his over-stimulated body tried to figure out what to do with the new sensation. He gasped, too breathless to cry out, and wrenched at House's hair as House wiggled the tips of his fingers hard against Wilson's prostate to keep him suspended on the plateau until Wilson seriously thought he might asphyxiate from an abundance of bliss.

When House slid his fingers out, Wilson hardly noticed; he was too preoccupied with trying to figure out why an orgasm as intense as that should leave him disappointed. He closed his eyes and went boneless on the couch, dimly aware of House _licking_ him clean. That was new. And a little strange. But considering the source… Besides, it felt sorta nice, and House wouldn't do it if he didn't get something out of it like enjoyment or shock value. Or both.

Wilson's chest continued to heave as he caught his breath. Once House had finished down below, he rubbed his hand gently over Wilson's stomach as if to help calm him. Wilson made a point not to look; if he took note of the affectionate gesture, House would stop and then act like a bear for the rest of the day. To be safe, Wilson waited until House removed his hand before counting an extra ten seconds and slitting his eyes open. House had turned to reach for his cane where it sat propped against the coffee table. The bruises on his wrists stood out in stark relief against his pale arms, and Wilson experienced a pang of something unpleasant at the thought that he had left marks like that on House's body.

"So, you're just feeling magnanimous today?" Wilson asked without sitting up.

House shrugged, an easy smile flickering over his otherwise impassive face. He had already planted his cane on the floor, but he hesitated to rise from the couch.

Wilson smiled and stretched a bit, intentionally wiggling his bare groin. The flannel sleep pants hung from one ankle. "What about you? You want me to…you know." He made a suggestive gesture and then pointed in the general direction of House's pants. To Wilson's surprise, House shook his head. The denial seemed to further detract from the already disappointment-tinged release that Wilson had just enjoyed. "Seriously?"

House looked at the floor, his right hand curled around the head of his cane. "It's not…I wouldn't…work…right now." He scratched at his stubble and scooted to the edge of the cushion, still sitting. "Just took my morning dose."

"Oh." Wilson nodded, but on the inside, he wondered why House had initiated a sexual encounter knowing that he wouldn't get anything out of it. Giving without reciprocation was foreign to the universe that House inhabited; he could be kind on occasion, when it suited him, but not selfless. He didn't just _give_ for no good reason.

As if House could read his every thought in the subtle stir of his eyebrows, he told Wilson, "I just wanted to incapacitate you so I could get to the shower first. You hog all the hot water."

Wilson snorted. He could see right through that statement to the part where House admitted that yes, he had done it just to be nice, or maybe because he liked watching Wilson get off, and don't read anything into that, you big moron. "Whatever, House." But Wilson still worried at it in the back of his head.

* * *

This time, Wilson made certain to hang back so that he and House entered the hospital at the same time. House shot him a knowing smirk as they walked in together, one gait naturally lopsided and the other tailored to match. They paused at the reception desk long enough for Wilson to grab his messages – House didn't have any this morning, a side effect of having no patient at the moment, the lucky bugger. Then they strolled to the coffee kiosk and stood around in line, House scowling at the floor and Wilson rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets, surveying the scenery.

"Oh, hey," Wilson exclaimed, too chipper judging by House's sour expression. "We were supposed to do that thing today with the stuffed animals. For the Pedes fundraiser later this week." House gave him a blank look. "You know, while the donors are touring the hospital today – we're supposed to wear a stuffed animal on our stethoscope."

House snorted and gave the world in general a wry look. "Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

"I'll find you a stethoscope," Wilson said, and wandered off before House could retort.

"Fine!" House called, irate. "But I'm not paying for your stupid coffee."

Wilson waved a hand over his shoulder without turning; he could well imagine the look of wary disdain that would grace House's face, were he to glance back – disdain at the idea that a bunch of deep-pockets would spontaneously decide to fork over more money if they saw doctors wearing cheap stuffed mammal-talismans around their necks; and wariness because he knew that Wilson would find a way to make him wear one. And Wilson would. He had certain bargaining chips now.

The hospital gift shop had just opened by the time Wilson made his way back from the clinic with two stethoscopes from the cache in there. He poked around the shelves until he found a little brown bear in a white lab coat; it even had a pocket protector. Wilson snickered to himself and rifled through more stuffed animals until he found a grumpy little gray bear. There was another one with a shiny silver cane but it was pink. While Wilson might find that amusing, House would never forgive him. After glancing surreptitiously about to make sure no one was looking, he ripped the cane off of the pink bear and stuck it in the loop of the gray bear's arm. Then he paid and beat a hasty retreat, as if the teddy bear police would track him down and yell at him for maiming and defiling stuffed animals.

House had bought his coffee and gimped back to the reception desk by the time Wilson returned. He was busy harassing Foreman while Cuddy approached and set down her briefcase in order to take a pile of pink slips from the nurse on duty. As threatened, House did not buy Wilson a coffee. That didn't bother Wilson; House couldn't have walked easily with two full coffees. Wilson slung his stethoscope over his shoulders and used a rubber band to fix the little gray bear to the ear piece. Something House said made Foreman roll his eyes and stalk toward the elevator bank while House grinned like an idiot. Wilson loved seeing that expression on his face, even if it meant he had just said something inappropriate.

Wilson rubber-banded the brown bear with the lab coat to the other stethoscope and strode up to House. "Here."

House turned to examine the offering and then scowled. "I am _not_ wearing your geek bear." He paused upon noticing the one Wilson wore. "And take that off. You look like an idiot."

Cuddy glanced up, more in response to House's tone than his words; she couldn't have heard him from all the way over on the other side of the reception counter. She must have been psychic this morning, though, because she snapped, "You have to wear one, House. I sent out the memo – all the doctors have to wear one while the donors are here."

"Yeah," House scoffed. "Cuz if you put it in a memo, then I just can't resist doing it."

Wilson leaned in so that only House would be able to hear him. "If you wear it, I'll let you bend me over the piano bench when we get home tonight." He shifted to glance pointedly at House's crotch, and then looked away at the ceiling with a _what can you do?_ expression.

House narrowed his eyes, looked at the bear, looked at Wilson, scowled at the corner of the lobby, and then snatched the stethoscope from Wilson's outstretched hand. "I hate you."

"You love me," Wilson countered.

"Wait till Cuddy hears what you just blackmailed me with," House came back. He shot Wilson an innocent look as Cuddy raised her head from a clipboard long enough to glare at House.

Wilson flared his nostrils in contempt and turned to gather his briefcase and message slips. He heard the elevator ding upon arrival, and then Foreman guffawed and said, "Aw, how cute. It's a Wilson-bear."

"Shut up," House griped.

"Is Wilson wearing a you-bear?"

"Shut up or you're fired."

The elevator doors slid shut and Wilson laughed as he strode off to wait in the coffee line all over again.

--TBC...and I swear, there _is_ a plot hidden in here. It's just taking a short sabbatical.


	6. Chapter 6

Cuddy found Wilson a few hours later in the clinic, filling out a chart at the reception desk while his latest patient got dressed and left the exam room. "Wilson? I need to talk to you."

Wilson scribbled a diagnosis and then glanced up. "What can I do for you?"

"It's about House."

Wilson froze for a moment, trying to sift through Cuddy's expression for a hint of what was wrong. She didn't appear mad, though; her eyes betrayed concern. "Okay. Did he do something?"

Cuddy sighed and glanced around the crowded clinic. "Let's go to my office."

"Um. Okay." Wilson furrowed his brow and finished up his notes before dumping the file in the outgoing bin and following Cuddy out of the clinic.

Once they reached Cuddy's office, she shut the door and stepped in a random direction. Without looking at Wilson, she asked, "Has House seemed a little off to you lately?"

Wilson shrugged with his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. "No, not really. Why?"

"Is he seeing someone?"

"Okay, what's this about?" Wilson demanded more sharply than he'd intended.

Cuddy turned to look at him, but if she found Wilson's tone offensive, she didn't show it. "He came in here to complain about having to talk to one of the donors. When he reached for the back of the chair, I saw marks on his wrist."

Wilson drew in a deep breath and pressed his tongue against the backs of his teeth. "Oh. Um… He, uh…." Wilson shut his eyes and shook his head while trying hard not to make that embarrassed little half-smile that always popped out when he least wanted it to. After stuttering and trying not to sound flustered, he took his hands out of his pockets and said, "It was an accident. Okay? He's fine."

Judging by Cuddy's expression, she saw right through his discomfort. "You did it, didn't you."

"I – _no!_" He scratched the back of his head and then made a _be-reasonable_ gesture. Then he shut his mouth, made a defeated face, and admitted, "We got a little carried away."

"Wilson…" Cuddy glanced away and then stepped closer to peer up at him. "Are you two seeing each other?"

"You make it sound so horrible," Wilson replied, backing up.

"You're _seeing_ each other?"

Wilson shook his head more in bewilderment than denial. This conversation was not going well, and honestly, this was not how he wanted news to come out. He didn't want news getting out at all, for that matter, but to have it revealed because of _that_, and to have Cuddy staring at him like he'd grown a second head… That did not make him feel even the slightest bit okay. He knew that not everyone would understand his relationship with House, but he had thought that Lisa, at least, would be accepting.

"What exactly did you do to him?"

"I didn't _do_ anything to him." Wilson shook his head and backed further away, one hand straying to his neck and the other waving in the air. "I can't even believe I'm having this conversation."

"Neither can I," Cuddy said. "How long has this been going on?"

Wilson sputtered for a moment and then answered, "Since a couple of weeks after his dad died. It was just…a dare… It wasn't serious until…until ever. It's not serious." Cuddy laughed after a fashion, but the sound made Wilson want to leave as soon as possible. And that angered him. "What's your problem, anyway? What House and I do in our spare time – "

"You tried to get me to go out with him," Cuddy snapped.

Wilson nodded uncomfortably. "Yeah. I told him pretty much the same thing I told you – to just go out on a date. He…didn't want to, apparently." He shifted and eyed the door. "Look, this has nothing to do with the hospital. I consider you a friend, but I'd rather not discuss it with you."

Cuddy's nostrils flared but she threw up her hands. "You're right; it's none of my business. Go on. Do your job."

Wilson nodded, disturbed by Cuddy's reaction, and retreated without another word.

* * *

Wilson escorted his last patient out around three, his hand at the small of her back as he guided her to the elevators. They kept on talking while they waited for the carriage to arrive, Wilson's body angled a bit too close to be casual. He half expected House to burst out of his office and insinuate himself into their personal space, not that Wilson was doing anything wrong. But House was right; Wilson had this way about caring that tended to send the wrong signals, and he was pretty much at its mercy. House saved him from himself more often than not anymore.

The elevator arrived and Wilson put his arm in the doorway as his patient entered, smiled, and pressed the button for the lobby. Wilson smiled back and turned to go back to his office before the doors slid all the way shut, his eyes scanning the corridor for signs of House. He must have been in the clinic, or even with a patient. House seemed to have this abnormal affinity for meeting with patients all of a sudden, or for being present at their medical procedures, or for talking to them…

Wilson paused with his fingers on his office doorknob and leaned back to peer around the corner at House's glass walls. Bookshelves blocked most of his view of House's inner sanctum, but he could see the empty conference room and a series of scribbles on the white board. Chase had told Wilson what House had admitted to one of his patients in the procedure room that he was having more bad days than he used to. Wilson had been trying not to notice because he knew that House didn't want him to, but he couldn't deny that it was happening. In the past few days alone, Wilson had noticed little things; pacing all night to ease a spasm was just one of them.

A flicker of movement caught his eye and Wilson watched House move to switch off the light box before disappearing from view again. So he was in there after all.

Wilson pushed into his office and started to gather his things. He and House could stop off for a rental or something on the way home. Funny how he increasingly referred to House's flat as home, but that was how it felt. He paused with his hands on a stack of patient files. House must have been lurking on the balcony during his appointment, and after Wilson had walked the patient out, he had come in long enough to leave the stethoscope with its little brown bear sitting on Wilson's keyboard. Wilson picked it up and squished it under his thumb so that its arms folded in toward its belly. The day had not ended, the donors were still in the building…House's taking it off meant that he was relinquishing Wilson's promised prize. Why would he give it up like that?

He removed the rubber band and propped the bear up against his pencil cup before shrugging off his lab coat and folding it over a guest chair on his way to the balcony. House revealed far more when he thought no one could see him, as was true of most people. But considering that House didn't want anyone to know when something bothered him, least of all Wilson, this was often the only way to gauge his real mood. Wilson crept up to the wall separating their halves of the balcony and craned his neck to see through the door to House's office. It was dark; House must have gone to sit in the Eames chair because Wilson couldn't see him. The computer monitor glowed in the dim room, though.

Wilson flicked random leaves and bits of nature from the divider wall, then swung his legs over to House's side. They had a long-standing agreement that no matter what was going on between them, House would never lock his balcony door. If something happened – if he passed out or tripped, or overdosed on something stupid like antihistamines, Wilson would be able to get in without waiting for Cuddy or a janitor to find a master key. For a while there, Wilson had worried that House considered the deal off; Amber's death had shaken them both. The first time since then that Wilson had decided to use his privilege to get into House's office, he had half-expected that the door would be locked after all. It hadn't been.

Wilson cracked the door open far enough to see that House was not present. The blinds were drawn though, and a hospital blanket lay in a pile on the footstool in front of his Eames chair. Wilson entered and let the door swing shut behind him, his curiosity drawn to the computer. House's hospital email account was up and Wilson glanced at the subject lines of twenty unread emails. He scrolled down and scanned through the ones that House had already opened: consult requests. There were over fifty of them in there, undeleted as yet, and all of them less than two weeks old.

A quick search of House's sent items revealed responses to most of the open requests. Wilson couldn't help but stare at them; House's replies were, for the most part, professional. They showed an obvious regard for the patients, sometimes including follow-up questions or suggestions for further tests; most of them cited medical textbooks or studies that he wanted the other doctor to read. Wilson scrolled down to the end of the sent items box, six months back – everything older had been archived by the hospital's email server. There were several internal emails – complaints to Cuddy, dirty jokes to Wilson – but most of the emails House had sent dealt with patients that weren't even his. There were even two emails that House had sent back to a medical student with enough balls to try to contact him for academic advice. God…House really was doing his job. No wonder Cuddy still put up with his antics.

Wilson snickered, though, when he read the response to the medical student: _Pick a different specialty. Only masochists with messiah complexes want to be oncologists, and I googled your MySpace account. You're too much of a wimp to survive it. _

"Cute," Wilson murmured. So House thought Wilson had a pathological need to save everyone, but he didn't think Wilson was a wimp. That was…he didn't know what that was. It was probably a compliment, but coming from House, compliments didn't always translate into good things.

The glass door bonged on its hinges and Wilson straightened from the computer, unable to hide his guilty expression. He looked at the blinds blocking the conference room from view and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Hey, House."

House remained poised in the doorway, framed by the light from the corridor, and then he shuffled inside and let the door swing closed. "Snooping?"

"Turnabout's fair play," Wilson replied automatically. Then he pulled out one hand to gesture at the computer. "You really do give secret consults."

The relief on House's face didn't seem to fit the situation. "I even publish articles," he replied. Wilson noticed the strain behind his words, though, and wondered if it had to do with something in his email that he didn't want Wilson to find, or his leg.

"Not since the nineties," Wilson said.

House glanced over his shoulder as he reached for the blanket pooled on the stool. "I wrote one two months ago."

Wilson blinked at him. "Oh." He usually read journal articles on the web nowadays, not in the paper editions, and his preferences were set to flag the ones having to do with cancer research. It never occurred to him to flag House's name. He dismissed that for later. "What's with the bear on my desk? While I admit that it's positively adorable – "

"I'm not wearing that stupid thing any more," House groused as he lowered himself into the chair with a grunt. At Wilson's expectant stance, he added, "Do you know how many people referred to it as a stuffed version of you? Twenty seven. I'm not wearing it."

Wilson ducked his chin and gave a halting nod, his eyes straying to the wall. Finally, he offered, "I didn't know it bothered you."

"It doesn't bother me," House replied, his voice clipped with something that tried to be anger. "I don't care what any of them think."

"Then why – "

"Because _you_ do."

Wilson stared at the top of House's head while House scrutinized his shoes and played with his cane. "_I'm_ not embarrassed by a stupid stuffed animal, House. I bought it." He waited for a rebuttal but House scowled and tucked his head lower. "This…whatever, between us…I know we don't talk about it, but it's not exactly a secret."

House raised his head at that, his eyes blue and sad in the soft light. "Isn't it?"

Wilson didn't have an answer to that so he put his hands on his hips and looked away. It was, actually. Wilson teased with the idea in public, but he and House had been doing that for years. Wilson _didn't_ want people to know that it was more than an act, and Cuddy's attitude earlier that day had reinforced his opinion on the subject. "It has nothing to do with you, House. I'm just not sure how…I don't want to deal with the reactions."

"Nothing to do with me," House echoed.

Wilson shut his eyes at that because he could hear the hurt behind the words. "You know I didn't mean it that way."

"Were you lying?"

Wilson's eyes opened on House's form hunched over in the chair. "What?"

"In the car. Were you lying?"

"No," Wilson replied as soon as he realized what House meant. "I don't want this to just be some shallow thing we do when we're bored." He paused and weighed the pros and cons of asking his next question. "Do _you_ want more?"

"I don't know."

Wilson nodded and averted his gaze again. He shifted his weight and contemplated the carpet as he said, "It's okay if you don't. We can just…go back. Be like before." And then his inner self called him an asshole and he blurted out, "Alright, fine. I can't go back. But I could stay like this, if that's what you wanted. I can deal with this. It can be enough."

House actually chuckled at that and Wilson thought he might catch House's eye until he looked over to find House resting his forehead on his hands folded over the head of the cane. "Did you say crap like that to your wives before you cheated on them?"

Oh. This was more serious than Wilson had thought. "I'm not leaving you."

"Same question," House said. He moved his head to rub his brow over his knuckles.

Wilson moved forward without thinking and crouched down next to the stool. "House – "

"Don't." House leaned back and set his cane across his knees. "I don't expect you to stick around and be miserable with me. If it's not what you want – "

Wilson grabbed the arm of the Eames chair and hauled himself forward until his lips impacted House's. House jumped but Wilson slipped a hand behind his neck to keep him in place. He found himself situated between House's legs and raised up to press him into the chair. Wilson's other hand snaked around to the small of House's back and House grunted once in lingering resistance before he sighed and gave in to Wilson's affection. His hands found Wilson's waist and pressed him closer, and then his tongue forced its way past Wilson's lips to flutter about his gums. Wilson could taste something bitter in House's saliva, but it wasn't Vicodin. Aspirin, maybe. Or just old coffee softened by a hint of toothpaste. He ignored it and mashed their faces together, tipping his head to give House more access to his mouth. His hand dipped down to the edge of House's jeans but no farther. They _were_ in a glass office with no locked doors, after all; blinds could only protect them so much.

After several seconds, Wilson pulled back and laid a series of chaste kisses along House's jaw, the stubble rough against his lips. Then he leaned back far enough to make eye contact. "I am _not_ miserable. And just for that, you owe me piano sex."

House snorted, his features suffused with something precariously close to joy. As soon as he saw the reflection of it on Wilson's face, he made a point of scowling. "You wish."

Wilson smirked, an expression that he had learned from House over a decade ago, and rested his hand against House's inner thigh, not high enough to touch anything of import, but more than close enough to his groin to be obscene. "You owe me piano sex."

House blinked and swallowed. "Okay, fine. But you're buying dinner."

* * *

Dinner didn't exactly make it to the top of their to-do list. Wilson had no sooner entered House's apartment and reached for the phone before House's mouth started tracing lazy patterns on the back of Wilson's neck. He dropped the receiver back into the cradle and murmured, "Hungry for something else?"

"We need to work on your dirty talk," House stated against Wilson's skin. "That was just pathetic."

"You're the one with the epic porn collection." Wilson sighed as House's hands encircled him from behind and kneaded at the softness of Wilson's stomach. The fingers drifted lower at a sedate pace.

"Which we'll have to better acquaint you with." He nibbled Wilson's ear and then nipped at the skin behind it. "Anything they say in those should be banned from real life."

Wilson laughed but the sound got fumbled up with an exhalation. "Mmph." He shivered as House's hand coasted down to cup the growing bulge between Wilson's legs. House limped closer and pulled Wilson's body back against him using the hand on Wilson's crotch. House's other hand skimmed up to brush over Wilson's throat, and Wilson tipped his head back to rest against House's shoulder.

"You can do something with your own hands, you know," House remarked.

"Nuh-uh." Wilson's breath hitched as the grip on his crotch tightened; he swallowed to work up some saliva. "_You_ owe _me_ this time for shunning my stuffed token of affection. I'm not – _hmph_ – not doing a damn thing for myself."

House's fingers splayed out over the column of Wilson's neck and he tongued a line up the carotid to the side of Wilson's face. His stubble scratched and tickled along Wilson's smooth skin. "So the whole vulnerable thing only works with women, hm?"

"Apparently," Wilson agreed. He planted his feet further apart and made an effort to leave his arms hanging limp at his sides.

"I don't get anything for confessing my insecurities?"

"You're not insecure." Wilson grunted as the fingers at his throat pressed in a little bit. It sent a flood of arousal southward and the hand between his legs responded by alternately squeezing and rubbing just the slightest bit, just enough to taunt him with knowing what would come later. He exhaled slowly. "Maybe you need to practice the whole vulnerable thing in front of a mirror. Mmm." Wilson clenched his hands and stiffened a bit as House continued to suckle at his neck and tease him through his clothes.

"Too much effort." House's hands left off playing and Wilson felt him shift his weight, careful of his leg. "I'd rather just fuck you senseless."

Wilson started to make a retort about who needed to cut the cheesy porn lines now, but his breath caught on a startled gasp as House wheeled him around and wrenched him off balance. His legs ended up buckling as he tried to catch himself without leaning any weight on House. He ended up on his knees, facing the piano bench with House's arms hooked under his armpits to cushion his fall. He grinned and craned his neck to see House smirking above him. And then House straightened, and the sight of him looming up there to unbuckle his belt, his pupils dilated as he surveyed Wilson at his feet…

Wilson turned back to face the piano bench and make fists around the front of his dress shirt. A wave of arousal gripped him and he shut his eyes when he heard House's belt sliding through the loops and then dropping to the floor with a mingled clink and flop of leather. Wilson's breathing sped up and he rose onto his knees to grip the piano bench and wait.

"You really do want me to do all the work." House's voice was wry and gruff, but amused as only House could be.

"You owe me," Wilson repeated, then fought off a shiver of anticipation. House put his hands on Wilson's shoulders and then leaned his weight on Wilson as he found his way gingerly to the floor. "We could go to the bedroom if it's easier on your – ow!" Wilson shied forward. "You pinched me!" He moved a hand to rub the abused flesh over his ribs.

"Quit coddling me." House settled himself and took his hands back.

"Jerk."

"Wuss."

Wilson flared his nostrils. "Get on with it."

"Relax." House shimmied forward on his knees, hissing each time he moved wrong, and knocked Wilson's feet out of the way. "Spread 'em."

Wilson complied and leaned his elbows on the piano bench again, but he threw a concerned glance over his shoulder. "I mean it. If this is hurting your leg – "

"Quit caring or I'll tie you to the damn bench so you can't trick me into doing this someplace else."

Wilson started and twisted his body awkwardly so that he could better see House behind him. If he could have seen his own expression, he would have better understood House's.

"Relax. It's a joke." House tilted his head to the side. "Unless you want that?"

Wilson hurried to face forward again, slightly shocked but too preoccupied with the hardness in his pants to care. He wasn't fond of those sorts of games, but House seemed eager to give back a bit of what Wilson had been doing to him lately. And he admitted that the thought of it definitely left him aching. House seemed to like it so much…it couldn't be _that_ bad. And his therapist had told him to try being spontaneous once in a while. But he couldn't just… He trusted House, he really did. It was just that the thought of being tied to a piece of furniture wound his innards into unpleasant knots. In spite of that, he said, "Okay, yeah."

House hesitated, though Wilson could hear the enthusiasm in his silence. Then he leaned to his left, into Wilson's peripheral vision, and peered at his face. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Let's do it."

"I don't get off on hurting you." House must have felt compelled to point that out for some reason.

It gave Wilson pause, and he slid back off the bench so that he could twist to see House's face. "Wait. That's why you like it? You – you like it when I – when I – "

"Why are you always reading into things?" House snapped.

"Because you make it so easy." Wilson shifted to sit on his hip so that his torso didn't strain to keep him facing House. "Just bear with me for a second, okay?"

"Oh, god. You want to talk, don't you."

"You don't think we should?" Wilson demanded. "House, just tell me that's not why you like it."

House glared at him and ran a firm hand over the scar on his thigh. "That's not why I like it."

Wilson's eyes narrowed; he could read House pretty well in most situations. "You're lying." When House flared his nostrils and looked away, Wilson slid around to cross his legs, leaning back against the piano bench. He had to adjust himself to sit comfortably, but the hardness in his groin had already waned for the most part.

House noticed him settling in for the long haul and pretty much threw himself back to lean against the couch. "It's nothing, Wilson. Don't make it into a big deal."

"House, you like it when I hurt you." Wilson watched him gripping at his thigh, probably subconsciously. "You haven't always liked it, have you? It's new. It's like when you broke your hand, isn't it. You're reapplying the gating mechanism."

House appeared to consider trying to get up and stalk out, but once he hit the floor he pretty much stayed there until he either got bored or someone braved his temper to help him up. And that was new too. Wilson hadn't registered it the other night, but House _did_ let Wilson help all the time, at least recently.

"How much worse is it, House?"

"I'm dealing with it."

"No, you're not. You're – " Wilson spluttered for a second. "You're being you."

"Are you finished?"

Wilson put forth a mighty effort to calm his temper. If he let himself get worked up, then House would escalate it, and they'd end up steaming in separate apartments for a week. Wilson didn't want that to happen. Once he had his voice – and the words that tumbled from his mouth – under control, Wilson said, "I need to know when it's worse, House. I prescribe for you."

House took a deep breath and lifted his chin in that manner he had when he gave in, but still refused to tell the whole truth. "I haven't been taking any extra Vicodin. You can check. I've been taking the prescribed amount, as directed."

Wilson felt compelled to point out, "You've never taken your pills as directed."

House contorted himself until he could shove his hand into his pocket and draw out his pill bottle, which he threw at Wilson with more force than necessary. "Count them."

Wilson caught the pills, barely, but didn't even look at them. If House were inviting scrutiny, then Wilson knew that for once, he was being compliant. It was the reason that eluded him. "House – "

"I'm not an addict."

The exhortation put a stop to whatever else Wilson had intended to say. "I know you need them. But that doesn't mean you're not addicted."

House's eyes blazed and he shot Wilson a look of such fury that Wilson shrank back. "I'm _dependant_, you – " He made a frustrated face and apparently thought better of resorting to name calling at this point. "Do you think I like that? Do you think I wanted to end up like this?" He summed himself up with a flick of his hand that ended in a rude gesture toward his thigh. "I need them, Wilson. All I wanna do is function. That doesn't make me an addict."

Wilson forced himself to silence long enough to acknowledge the fact that House had been trying to cut his Vicodin use back to a reasonable amount. Or at least to something less than he normally used. "Okay," he conceded. "I don't want to argue."

"Oh, quit patronizing me," House snapped, then twisted to reach the arm of the couch behind him.

"Where are you going?"

House started to answer but he needed his breath just to force himself to his feet.

Wilson watched him totter for a second, bent double over the couch while he fought to control his breathing. "You didn't answer me. Just how much worse is it?"

"Fuck you," House gasped. He raised his head to look around and his eyes came to rest on his cane, which he had left leaning against the desk on the other side of the room. Wilson could see the war going on behind his eyes: ask Wilson to get him his cane, or try to storm out without it?

Wilson got to his feet without a word and crossed the room, zipping his pants back up as he went. He picked up House's cane and brought it back. His kindness earned him a glare of intermingled hatred and embarrassment, and House limped heavily from the room without another word. The bathroom door slammed several seconds later and Wilson heard House turn on the bath tap.

"Well," Wilson muttered to himself. He glanced down at the amber bottle that he still held clenched in his fist. "That could have gone better."

* * *

Wilson puttered around the apartment for the next hour, listening surreptitiously for the sound of House finishing his bath. Once he heard uneven footsteps pass from the hallway to House's room, Wilson sighed and considered whether to order dinner or just go back to his own place. He ended up rifling through House's cabinets until he found enough edible substances to make a passable pilaf. It would take some time to cook, so Wilson shuffled through the living room and decided to brave the lion in his den.

House was propped up against a pile of pillows, medical journals spread out across the unmade bed. He had donned his silver reading glasses and appeared engaged in something that looked suspiciously like work. Wilson leaned against the door jamb and watched him scribble on a legal pad for a second before saying, "I made some dinner. It won't be ready for a while."

House uttered a noncommittal syllable and kept on writing, though he glanced at Wilson over the rim of his glasses.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"Not really," House admitted, but he kept on working.

Well, that was something, at least. Wilson had grown accustomed to House giving him the cold shoulder after an argument over his pills, and House _never_ actually told Wilson that he wanted him to stick around. It confused Wilson, however; House didn't seem in the mood to talk. "House?"

"They published the tables in the wrong order."

Wilson glanced aside and then pushed off the door jamb. "In your article?"

"Yup." He scowled and then tossed one of the journals to the end of the bed, where Wilson could reach it. "And Cuddy wonders why I hate submitting crap to these idiots."

"It's because they're your peers," Wilson replied, though he only had half a mind to the conversation. Most of what they talked about could be done so on autopilot. "You need good peer reviews to keep your reputation as a paragon of diagnostic magnificence."

"My peers are idiots," House grumbled. "And don't think you can just get away with appealing to my ego."

Wilson gave him a small smile and set the journal back down. "It always worked before."

"Different ego."

"Oh." Wilson pondered that for a second, then decided to take a risk. "You could see a specialist."

House finally laid his notepad aside and sighed as he removed his glasses. "You're not just gonna let it go, are you?"

It took a moment for Wilson to decide how to answer that. In the end, he went with the simple truth. "No."

"Why not?"

Wilson shot him an incredulous look. "Because we're – we're – " He flopped his hands at the bed in the hopes that House would comprehend his unspoken _we're in a relationship, you twit_. "Nobody in their right mind would give you a new liver if…" He couldn't even put an end to that thought in his own mind.

A heavy silence ensued and then House left off fiddling with his pen. "Quit moping and c'mere." He pointed to the left side of the bed and Wilson blinked a few times before complying. They shuffled a handful of journals and notebooks out of the way, and then House said, "You do realize you're gonna outlive me, right?"

Wilson's butt hovered a few inches above the mattress and he gawped at him for a second before plopping down. "I can't believe you just said that."

"It's the truth," House replied forcefully, but he appeared chagrined. "You really are a girl. Stop looking at me like that."

Wilson hurried to face away, and then flinched when House's arm snaked around his waist. "Knock it off."

"You're too tense." House brushed his lips over Wilson's neck and gently worked his way to Wilson's ear. "Relax," he enjoined, tightening the arm looped around Wilson's waist. His other hand ghosted over Wilson's chest in a soothing manner and he shifted to kneel behind Wilson on the bed.

Wilson's body gradually softened against House's chest and House folded him closer, his thighs pressed on either side of Wilson's hips. Wilson could feel House's fingers digging firmly into the soft skin of his side, holding him. "Are you cuddling me?"

"No," House snapped, though the indignation was obviously a front. "I'm making sure you can't escape."

"This is practically vertical spooning."

"Drop it now or I'll stop."

That made Wilson laugh and House took it as a cue to resume some of their former play from the living room. He canted his pelvis to press his groin into Wilson's buttocks, and his other hand drifted down to paw between Wilson's legs. Wilson arched into House's palm and House gripped him more tightly about the middle. When Wilson sighed in pleasure, House moved both hands to Wilson's fly and worked to unbuckle and unzip him. Wilson leaned against him and turned his head. House's chin rested on Wilson's left shoulder and Wilson managed to get a crooked kiss out of him as his right hand slid into Wilson's pants.

The kiss broke and Wilson tipped his head back with a breathy moan. House put his free arm back around Wilson's waist and bent Wilson back into the curve of his stomach as he stroked Wilson's cock. Wilson could feel House's arousal as a pressure against the small of his back. When Wilson let out a broken breath, House rubbed his groin against Wilson and made a happy purr low in his throat. The sound spurred Wilson to run his palms up House's thighs until he had to twist his hands behind himself. House's jeans were stretched taut over his groin and Wilson shoved his palms against the denim-clad bulge pressed against his back.

House grunted and then hissed, and tried to pull Wilson closer. When he realized that there was no space between them as it was, he suddenly rose up on his knees, dragging Wilson's feet off the floor. Wilson's arms shot out to the sides catch himself as House fell back and pulled Wilson down on top of him, then rolled. Wilson's breath rushed out as House's weight settled along his back. Once Wilson realized what House intended to do, he clenched handfuls of the wrinkled bedding and turned his head into the mattress. There was little that he enjoyed more than this; the thought alone left him stifling his moans in the blankets.

House laughed into his shoulder. "Calm down, Wilson. I haven't done anything yet." And then he rolled off.

"Hey – where – ?" Wilson scrambled up onto his hands and knees as House scooted over to the edge of the bed and tipped over onto his feet. "Where are you going? House!"

"I have to show you something."

"Now?" Wilson got himself tangled in the unmade bed sheets as he tried to reach the floor fast enough to stop House from leaving the room. "You have to show me something now? Shit." He threw himself off the bed and thrashed his hands to free them from the sheets. In the mean time, House limped from the room and Wilson heard him gimping down the hall with one hand on the wall for support. "Whatever it is, I guarantee you it's not what I _want _you to show me!"

"For shame, Doctor Wilson – such a dirty mind," House called from the living room.

Wilson muttered, "Crazy bastard," as he stomped down the hall in House's wake, doing up his fly without satisfaction for the second time that evening. "This had better…be…good…" He trailed off when he saw House leaning against the desk, peering into his open backpack with a pensive air. With a glance spared for the rest of the room, as if it could explain House's behavior, Wilson sidled over to him and sat on the edge of the desk beside House's hand. He drawled, "You got somethin' there?"

House looked up as if just noticing Wilson, then reached into his pack and drew out a small black bag. It looked suspiciously like a little zippered makeup bag, and House bit his bottom lip as he handed it to Wilson.

Wilson reached out to take it. It didn't weigh all that much. "Um…you know I'm not really into that, right?" He shot House a speculative look.

"What?" House's brows drew down between his eyes before he puzzled out what Wilson was talking about. "No! Oh, for – just open it." And then he snatched at his cane and stalked over to perch on the arm of the couch.

Wilson unzipped the bag and stole a wary look inside. He immediately closed his eyes to regain his composure before barking, "You're showing me your stash? This is how you're _handling_ your leg? House, I can't – "

"Look closer, you fucking moron," House snapped.

Wilson clamped his mouth shut and stewed in silence as he reached in and yanked out a long, thin box. "Fentanyl lozenges? These are for cancer patients."

"They're for managing breakthrough pain in patients who regularly use opiate painkillers," House replied. He sounded strangely subdued.

The tone of House's voice molified Wilson and he looked more closely at the bag in his hand. There were other medications mixed in with two more Fentanyl lozenges: Amytriptyline and Dilaudid, and Gabapentin. Wilson turned one of the pill bottles to read the label. "Who's Doctor Ngyen? Wait…Tani Ngyen? The…" His voice dropped off to something barely over a whisper. "You're seeing a pain management specialist?"

House's head dipped lower over the head of his cane.

He should have noticed before now; House hadn't asked him for a refill in almost three weeks. "House – you're seeing a specialist?"

"I don't want to be an addict."

Wilson dropped the bag onto the desk and practically bounded across the room to envelope House.

House stiffened as Wilson careened into him. "Hey – what are you doing?" Wilson squeezed him tighter and ignored House's strained, "Omph." After suffering Wilson's shameless display of…well, of something that House wouldn't normally tolerate, House asked, "Are you finished yet?"

"No." Wilson squished him a bit more.

"Okay," House croaked, breathless from the force of Wilson's embrace. He sounded pleased, though, and he worked his left arm free so that he could wrap it around Wilson's waist. "You get ten more seconds to be sappy, and then I'm shoving you off."

Wilson laughed wetly and shifted his hands to take better advantage of his allotted hug time.

"Oh my god," House muttered. "Are you _crying_?"

Wilson started and then quickly disentangled himself so that he could turn around and scrub at his face. He let forth an indignant, "No," before he faced House again.

House snorted, but he was smiling. "Girl."

"Twerp."

"Nitwit."

"Egomaniacal nut job."

"Care freak."

Wilson frowned.

"Okay, bad insult," House conceded. "Do I get a do-over?"

"How about a do-_me_?" Wilson countered.

House's eyes scrunched up. "Where the hell do you find these lines? That was horrible."

Wilson shrugged. "What is that, a pass?" He hooked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. "Cuz I'm more than happy to go do myself."

"Please stop."

Wilson grinned. "Make me."

House jutted his chin in Wilson's direction. "Take off your pants. They'll just get in the way."

"Um… In the way of what?"

"Do you still want piano sex?"

Wilson stared at him for a moment, then put his hands on his hips and shifted from one foot to the other. That sounded like a trick question, coming from House, but he decided to risk it. "Yeah."

"Then drop 'em and get on the floor."

All at once, Wilson started to shake in anticipation. He undid his pants with clumsy fingers and House gestured for Wilson to hand him his belt. Wilson passed it to him along with a strange look, then stepped out of his pants and boxers. That was right – before the interruption, he'd agreed to let House tie him up for this. His stomach churned and he glanced back at House before getting into position on his knees. The piano bench cooled him as he settled his chest over it and let his arms hang over the other side. He was already hard again.

House slid off the couch arm and lowered himself to the floor, then set his cane aside. After removing his own belt as well, House rose up behind Wilson and placed soothing kisses all along the back of Wilson's neck as he leaned over him to reach his hands. House looped one of their belts around the leg of the piano bench, and then hesitated. His breath cooled the moist skin of Wilson's neck, and Wilson cringed involuntarily. "Are you still sure you want to try this?" House asked.

In response, Wilson fumbled to press one of House's hands against his stiff cock and pushed against it. "You tell me."

"Mmm." That sound seemed more doubtful than anything else, but House proceeded to wrap the belt around Wilson's wrist, making a figure eight between the bench leg and Wilson so that only the leather touched Wilson's skin. "Tell me if it hurts."

"It's fine," Wilson said too quickly. His mind focused on the stripes across House's wrists as House did the same to Wilson's other hand. Wilson could feel his heart racing, hurtling blood past his eardrums in a rush of burgeoning anxiety. But god, he could feel the precum dripping from his tip and his cock throbbed.

Once he had finished trussing Wilson up, House placed his fingers over the pulse point on Wilson's neck. "You're scared."

"Yeah," Wilson acknowledged in a breathy voice. He couldn't exactly lie at the moment. "Don't you dare stop."

House's only response was to settle on his haunches behind Wilson and start to touch him. He ran his hands lightly over the backs of Wilson's thighs, calloused palms scraping over tender skin. Wilson shuddered and let his head hang down over the edge of the bench, his hands clenched into fists and his entire body strung with tension. He could feel the rigidity of his muscles giving way as House brushed his knuckles over his buttocks. Then House reached between Wilson's legs to fondle him from behind.

A long breath puffed from Wilson's lungs and he twisted his wrists to try to catch at something to hold onto. His position was too awkward, though; he could only grasp at air, and he did so. House's knees rasped on the wood floor as he resituated himself, and then Wilson felt his tongue laving the small of his back with soft swirls, followed by bouts of suction and hints of teeth. House ran one hand up between Wilson's legs and twisted his wrist to grip Wilson's cock.

Wilson grunted and bit his lip, his chest heaving against the lacquered bench. He still wasn't sure about doing it this way, both because of the strain on House's leg and the fact that he couldn't free himself in a hurry, but it felt good – House's mouth working over his buttocks, House's hand tightly circled about his cock, his thumb rubbing gently into Wilson's slit while the rest of his fingers massaged Wilson's length, not stroking yet but stimulating every nerve in the most sensuous manner possible. Wilson allowed his eyes to slide closed and he moaned as his hips canted forward into House's hands. "More…House, more…"

Wilson had no idea where the lube came from, but House's remaining hand slid up the cleft between Wilson's cheeks and slowly kneaded the skin there. Wilson whimpered and thrust again, and House made a proper fist around Wilson's length. "Spread your legs farther."

Wilson struggled to comply, his body responding a bit too well to House's ministrations. House's fingers ran over the muscles of his anus and then pressed gently against the opening without slipping inside. Wilson knew he was too tense but he couldn't seem to relax at all. Half of him teetered on the edge of being insanely turned on, while the other balked at knowing that he was tied to a piece of furniture. He trusted House, he really did, but this was not what he'd had in mind when he had blackmailed House into wearing a cheesy stuffed bear.

And then House did that thing again – the thing he had done that morning with his tongue. Wilson grunted and pulled against the belts without meaning to, and _that_ felt so strange and erotic that his hips shoved forward into House's hand. House fixed his mouth over Wilson's opening and suckled a bit before gradually working his tongue past the first ring of muscles. He let his teeth graze the skin on the outside while he prodded the nerves within, and Wilson bit his lip, panting. After a minute, House replaced his tongue with a finger, and it slipped inside with little trouble that time. Wilson's breathing fell out of rhythm and he kept his head bowed. His pelvis twitched every few seconds. Though House's hand stayed wrapped firmly around his penis, he didn't provide any movement. The pressure without the friction was slowly killing Wilson. He twisted his arms again in search of a handhold, and then something in him finally snapped loose.

Wilson grit his teeth and arched on the bench to shove himself back on House's finger. The belts held him mostly in place, though they squeaked, and he gasped at the sensation of leather pulling against him as he moved. House added a finger and Wilson squirmed to find a way to thrust into House's hand. House wouldn't allow him anything more than the grip itself, though, and Wilson huffed in frustration as he continued to wiggle and roll his hips in vain. Then House crooked his fingers and flicked Wilson's prostate.

"Oh!" Wilson's breath hitched and he froze for a moment before shoving his cock into House's palm again. Still no give there, but the fingers in his ass picked up the pace and Wilson clenched on them, his hands drawn into fists as he strained against the belts. "Ohh…_do something!_" he moaned, raising his ass in the air in the hopes of enticing House to stop tormenting him. "Come on, _please_." House let go of Wilson's cock altogether and Wilson groaned. "You jerk." House added a third finger and then slammed them all against his prostate. Wilson couldn't stop himself from crying out. "Okay, oh _god_, I take it back!" The bench creaked as Wilson shifted his weight and yanked against the belts without meaning to.

"Are you actually begging?" House asked.

Wilson could hear the laughter in his voice and it made him hornier for some reason. "If it'll get you to fuck me faster, then yes."

The hands disappeared altogether and Wilson got ready to issue a barrage of threats. He heard House's zipper, though, and contorted himself until he could watch House shove his jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh. Wilson didn't know why the thought of House fucking him almost fully clothed appealed to him so much, but he gasped and fought off the light-headedness engendered by his body rerouting blood to his cock. He had thought himself hard before, but apparently not. The ache in his groin intensified as House rose up on his knees between Wilson's legs and stretched over him to grip the edges of the piano bench on either side of Wilson's shoulders. Wilson felt House's cock settle harmlessly into the crevice between his buttocks, long and full and slightly wet from a combination of Cowper's fluid and the lube left over on Wilson's skin. House angled his hips to press the tip of his cock against Wilson's entrance, and then stopped to draw in a few ragged breaths.

"House?" Wilson could feel House's heart beating rapidly against his spine, and House's breath stirred the hair at the nape of Wilson's neck.

"'s'okay," House gasped.

Wilson twisted again and tried to peer over his shoulder at House's face. He could already feel his erection waning. "Do you want to stop?"

That was a stupid question, and it merely goaded House into clenching his jaw and shoving forward. Wilson's body convulsed as House breached him, and then he muffled a cry at the feeling of having House's full length sheathed inside of him. It burned a bit, but he had expected that, considering how long it had been since he had been able to bottom. Wilson grunted and remained still, adjusting to the intrusion, and then he circled his hips to let House know he was ready.

House rested his weight over Wilson's back, crushing him against the piano bench, and rolled his hips. Wilson hissed and bit his lip, focused on not moving, not yet. He whimpered as House raised himself a bit higher on Wilson's body, his face close enough to Wilson's to press his mouth against Wilson's cheek. The new angle allowed him to hit Wilson's prostate dead on with his next thrust, and Wilson's entire body clenched.

"Yes, there," Wilson choked out, and House pulled almost all the way out before shoving into him again. "_Nnnnnh_ – yes!"

House established a rhythm and Wilson moaned, spreading his legs as far as he could so that House could get closer, penetrate deeper. Denim scraped over Wilson's inner thighs with each instroke and he breathed through his nose to keep from making too much noise. His fingers continued to instinctively search for a handhold, but he couldn't twist to reach anything. The piano legs creaked each time House thrust into him and Wilson took to wheezing, his body arched against House, needing more.

As if he could hear Wilson's thoughts, House increased the tempo and force of his thrusts, foregoing his grip on the bench in favor of hooking his left arm over Wilson's shoulder. House reached down to grasp Wilson's penis with his other hand and Wilson finally let out a sharp wail. He couldn't help it, _god_, he couldn't help it. It felt so good – House's cock slamming into his prostate, House's body smothering him, House's hand squeezing and stroking him in tandem with the rocking of his hips…

Wilson wrenched his arms up just to feel the belts bite into his wrists. "Ohhhhh-hmm. House…harder…ohmygod…_harder_…"

House obliged him and Wilson's breath ran out as House's grip firmed up around his cock. They fell out of synch for a moment as Wilson's body strained to move faster than House wanted to go. As punishment, House released his cock and wrapped his arm around Wilson's waist in a brutal grip to hold him still. It gave him better leverage from which to thrust and Wilson moaned, his entire body shivering as House pounded into him harder than before, his arm tight enough to restrict Wilson's breathing. Wilson turned his head, searching for a kiss, but House's eyes were shut tight and he had buried his face into Wilson's neck. His breath left a moist spot near Wilson's ear.

Wilson looked back down at the floor instead, his entire body jerking back and forth on the piano bench as House shoved into him over and over, his body curled over Wilson's, every clench of his stomach transmitted to Wilson via the pressure blossoming at the base of his spine. Wilson could hear each labored grunt, each whimper that House couldn't hold back, each sharp inhalation as Wilson's ass clenched around his length in an effort to hold him inside. The burning pleasure of House penetrating him left his entire frame shuddering in ecstasy.

"Oh…god…" Wilson moaned. He could feel his cock weeping, painfully hard. It bobbed as House slammed into him, their movements growing more frenzied as they reached their limits. Wilson's hands curled into fists and he threw his head back as his body spasmed and went rigid. He couldn't get there, though; he could feel his orgasm hovering just out of reach, torturing him as every impact against his prostate shoved him to the brink but not over it. He struggled to move but House held him in place. "_Nnng!_" He was desperate but well beyond the ability to ask for anything. "Oh – _oh!_ – House…" Wilson gasped and hiccupped, and every part of him convulsed again, so close. "House…puh…_nnnnggh!_" Wilson curled violently forward, certain that he had to come this time. House tightened his grip and hit his prostate harder than ever, but Wilson still didn't tip over the edge. "Pleaseplease – _oh! _God...please, House, please…_please_!"

House finally relented and made a grab for Wilson's cock. Between the sweat and the precum, he couldn't maintain his grip at first. Wilson arched and keened between his clenched teeth, and House's hand finally closed around him. Free to move again, Wilson pumped into House's palm while House continued to drill him, both of them breathless and slick with their exertions, wound up and ready to burst. One last thump against Wilson's prostate was all it took. His breath fled and he seized up, aware only of House's cock still moving within him, and then white hot pleasure flooded through his system. He only kept from howling because he couldn't inhale with House crushing him, and then heat exploded in his spine and swept through his abdomen, up to his chest where his heart practically stopped, then out through every limb until he had clenched everything out to his fingertips and toes, growling around his clamped teeth, and House kept going, nudging him higher and steeper with each impact against his prostate, until Wilson hit the pinnacle of bliss and toppled off into oblivion.

Wilson was aware of House coming with him, of a sharp pain in his shoulder blade where House bit down, and then a number of interminable seconds later, he heard House flop back onto the floor with a sated groan, breathing heavily. Wilson hung over the piano bench, boneless and spent, his wrists and arms sore along with other parts of his body. He loved each and every ache, and silently wished for more to add to his store in the very near future.

House shifted on the floor behind him. Wilson forced himself to raise his head and look. "Hey. You still alive?"

"It's possible," House slurred as he struggled to sit up and pull his jeans back over his hips at the same time. He seemed to realize that he was sitting on the waistband, which made his task impossible, and groaned. "Don't need pants," he mumbled.

Wilson waited for House to crawl over and unbuckle the belts, then gingerly slid off the bench, careful of his knees, which were busy reminding him of his age and how hard the floor was. "I'm adding that to the repeat category. Objections?"

"Fuck, no." House rolled over onto his side, very nearly in the fetal position, and stopped moving except to breathe.

House looked comfortably wrecked, but Wilson knew damn well that he would regret staying there for long. Cold floors and temperamental legs did not play well together. Wilson pulled himself to his feet and then stumbled over to help House pick himself up off the floor. They managed to make it to the bedroom but neither of them could be bothered with fixing the covers or moving the medical journals, writing utensils and note pads out of the way. They collapsed where they fell, their limbs overlapping, and passed out, content.

--TBC

Reviews are love!


	7. Chapter 7

It wasn't the smell of smoke that woke Wilson. It was the loud expletive, followed by the crash of cookery. And then a thump that sounded painful, and some more swearing.

Wilson fell out of bed and mumbled, "Pilaf," as he located a pair of House's flannel pants. He somehow managed to pull them on while stumbling down the hallway, and he reached the kitchen just as House's head appeared on the other side of the island. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Dropped your rice thing," House grumbled. He levered himself back to his feet and glared down at the mess he'd left on the floor. He looked comical standing there in a t-shirt, button-down, boxers and tube socks, covered in rice, mixed veggies and sauce.

Wilson crinkled his nose at the acrid smell that wafted on the air. "Well, no loss. Smells inedible anyway." He trudged around the island for a better look at the mess of burned rice and sauce splattered all over the tiles. There was a nice big House print right in the middle of it. After stealing a glance at the man himself, Wilson turned away to find some dish towels. Without looking at him, Wilson said, "You have rice in your hair." He fished a fresh role of paper towels out of a cabinet and came back to the sight of House picking clumps of singed pilaf from his hair and sticking it in his mouth. "You know…never mind. I'm just gonna pretend I didn't see that."

House humphed and shuffled out of Wilson's way, favoring his bad leg more than usual. He picked at his teeth with his tongue as he went. "It was good."

"Mm." Wilson leaned down and started tearing off paper towels, his manner wry. "High praise, coming from you." He straightened and mashed at the towels with his foot to soak up whatever liquid he could.

"Mmph…shit."

Wilson glanced over his shoulder. "You okay?" he asked again.

House had doubled over to grip his right thigh, his face tight and his tongue sticking out from between his teeth as he hissed. Around a sharp breath, he grated out, "Cramp."

Wilson could see it coming and he actually felt his stomach flip over and drop. This wasn't one of House's garden variety muscle spasms. Wilson's brain flashed back to the last time he had seen that exact variant of expression on House's face – when House had toppled over on the putting green, only saved from screaming because it took him so off guard that he hadn't been able to breathe for a moment. Then the pain had faded and they'd finished out the game because they'd had money riding on it. And Wilson had left for a medical conference the next morning. Three days later, he had returned to find his best friend so mired in bitterness and agony that he hadn't recognized him at all.

Wilson dropped the roll of paper towels and managed to get his arms shoved up under House's quickly enough to at least slow his descent when his leg gave out. A sharp pain radiated through Wilson's left knee as he hit the tiles, more concerned with cushioning House's fall than his own.

"Straighten it out."

House curled and went rigid. "Shit – _shit!_"

Wilson reached over him to try to unfold his leg, but House was sitting on it. "Shift over."

House's breath ran out and Wilson gave up on moving him in order to hold onto him as he thrashed. He managed to drag House back against his stomach and keep him there, his arms drawn across House's chest and abdomen like vices, trapping him in place as much as possible.

"I've got you…it's okay, I've got you…"

House couldn't hold back an anguished sort of strangled sound on his next exhale, and then he didn't draw a fresh breath.

"Breathe, House." Wilson thumped on House's chest as best as he could in that position. "Come on; you're gonna pass out."

House jerked but drew in a ragged breath, then crumpled forward. Wilson felt him swallowing against the side of his neck, choking on the sounds he refused to make.

Wilson folded over him and turned his head away, shutting his eyes as House arched his neck back into Wilson's shoulder and quaked. At some point, he had managed to snag both of House's hands and he fought not to react as House squeezed the life out of them, grinding Wilson's knuckles together. Wilson kept mumbling meaningless platitudes, unsure if House registered them or not. If he did, he would find an embarrassing moment to remind Wilson of it; Wilson didn't really care. If handing House fodder helped him get through this without screaming, then Wilson happily offered himself up for mockery.

After a nearly interminable minute, House's body started to relax. Wilson tipped them both to one side so that he could kick House's leg out from under him and House expelled lungfuls of air with far more force than he took them back in; he showed no inclination to move his leg farther than Wilson pushed it. They slumped back, Wilson sprawled against the cabinets and House hunched on the ground between Wilson's legs, laying half on top of him. Both of them shivered from the aftereffects – House of pain, and Wilson of adrenalin. House still hadn't released Wilson's fingers.

Wilson untangled one of his hands and set his fingers against House's carotid. "One twenty," he announced, his voice uneven. He didn't like seeing House in pain to begin with, but that had been worse than anything he'd observed in over five years. And knowing House, this was not the first time it had happened of late. "When do you see Ngyen again?"

House lifted his head enough for Wilson notice the tear tract on the side of his face. "Next week."

"He needs to adjust your meds."

House panted in silence, then nodded.

"How often?"

"Don't worry so much." House's voice was hoarse even though he hadn't lost control of his vocal chords during the spasm.

Wilson craned his neck to catch House's eye, but House hurried to turn away. "House, how often?"

House sighed, trying to act put upon. "Four times so far. It's not a big deal."

Wilson bowed his head until his forehead touched the tip of House's shoulder blade. He took a stuttering breath, then simply said, "It's a big deal." He changed the subject before they could start arguing over Wilson's smothering instinct. "Do you need something for it, or is it over?"

"I'm fine," House insisted, though his shallow respirations begged to differ. "It didn't even last that long."

Wilson adjusted himself until he realized that he was pretty much cuddling House. The strange thing was that House leaned back and let him. Maybe he was just too exhausted or too busy recovering to protest at the moment, but it still bothered Wilson. It also made him bold. "You're not fine, House. You've fallen twice now in the past week, and…and four of _these_?" He squeezed House's midsection a bit, encouraged by the lack of squirming or mockery.

"Gabapentin gives me vertigo," House replied, unusually subdued. "It's common." The fingers of his one hand still encased Wilson's, though Wilson did all he could to keep House from noticing.

"Ngyen needs to switch you to something else before you really hurt yourself."

House huffed in irritation and Wilson braced himself to be pushed off. The shove never came; House just angled a bit to the left and straightened his bad leg to lay flat out in front of him. "So the room spins sometimes." Wilson watched House's jaw work, though the emotion behind the movement didn't communicate itself to his voice. "If it works, who cares?"

Wilson glanced to the side, and then carefully pointed out, "But it's _not_ working. You're getting worse." He hesitated long enough to think better of saying more, and then added, "I don't like seeing you like this."

"Aren't you the one always harping on me to get off the Vicodin?"

There it was – the fight. Wilson could hear it in the timbre of House's voice, feel it in the fine bunch of muscles where their bodies touched. "Usually, yeah," Wilson replied. He let the smallest amount of irritation mingle with the plea in his voice. "But not if it does this to you. I know you need to take something for your leg, House – I've seen the MRI's. I don't like it, and I wish you could do without it, but you can't. And that's fine," he rushed to cut House off. "By all means, use it for your leg. I just don't want you using it as a crutch for everything else that goes wrong in your life."

House dragged his fingers away from Wilson's and grabbed onto the leg of the antique autopsy table that he used as a kitchen island.

"House – "

"You're a fucking hypocrite," House snapped, his voice pinched as he made an attempt to get up on his left knee and failed when he accidentally put weight on his right.

Wilson just shut his eyes so that he didn't have to watch House struggle to stand up. There was no way he would be allowed to help right now, not when House was mad enough to resort to swearing instead of employing his dangerously subtle sarcasm.

"You only say crap like that when it helps you look like the good guy." House's voice dropped off and he breathed raggedly, still stuck on the floor, though he had at least moved away from Wilson. "You're not the good guy, and you lie to make yourself feel better about it."

That sent Wilson's simmering anger bubbling over. "I don't lie to you! This isn't an act, House. I _don't_ want to see you in pain. I want you to be happy and healthy, and I want your _liver_ to be happy and healthy – "

"You talked Cuddy into betting me that I couldn't handle detoxing, just to make me admit I was an addict!"

Wilson's eyes flew open and he stared across the floor at House. "You knew about that?"

"Phht." House averted his eyes and appeared to gauge the likelihood of dragging himself upright with the help of the refrigerator door. Almost too softly to hear, he stated, "Cuddy can be a bitch, but she's not cruel."

Wilson shook his head. "I didn't do that to hurt you. I just wanted you to see it."

"You think I didn't?"

"You pop pills like candy. You use them to escape when you're stressed. It's not just about your leg."

House lowered his head and gazed at the tiles between them, his face slack. "Do you blame me?"

Wilson's brows dropped a bit. "Blame you? For abusing pain killers?"

"Yeah." House licked his lips and raised his eyes, but he avoided looking directly at Wilson.

Wilson blinked a few times, then shook his head. "I'm not sure where you're going with this."

"My life sucks," House clarified.

"Your…" Wilson's jaw went slack. He could feel his breathing speed up, as if his body were warning him to panic soon, or to fight. "House…"

"Don't act like you don't know it," House muttered, his eyes shifting from every surface they touched. The worst part of House's declaration was that he didn't elaborate; he thought that the proof was self-evident. He was simply stating a fact, as he saw it.

Wilson fumbled himself closer to House, within touching range, but he didn't breach House's personal space. "Do you really think that?"

House shot him an incredulous look. "No, idiot. I said it to be funny."

"It's not funny," Wilson told him. The force of his words caused House to finally hold his gaze. "You and my job. Remember? I don't have anything else. And I need antidepressants to handle my job, so really, the only good thing left in my life is you."

House let out a self deprecating snort. "Wow. You got screwed."

That comment was not intended to lighten the situation, but Wilson couldn't really stomach the thought of where it might go, were they to proceed in all seriousness. So he replied, "Not like I'm complaining." He gestured toward the living room, and the piano bench that they could see from their vantage points on the floor.

House laughed in what seemed like relief. Wilson wondered if that conversation had been one of House's inadvertent tests, or if he was just glad to have the dramatic moment done with. All House said in response was, "I need a shower."

"Yes, you need to cleanse yourself of the residual effects of a heartfelt moment."

"I need to get the rice out of my hair," House countered, but he wore a rare smile. The furrow in his brow softened and his eyes creased at the edges the way they used to, back when Wilson had first met him. Wilson knew that the pain was still there, but right now, he couldn't see it past the playful twinkle in House's eyes. "Quit looking at me like we're stuck in a Hallmark card. And not just any Hallmark card, but one of those annoying singing ones."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You're an ass." He climbed to his feet and held a hand out for House. "Come on. Be nice and I'll help wash your…hair." He smirked.

House's smile turned mischievous and his face crinkled, though the salty line that still stained his stubbled cheek left Wilson with mixed feelings. He made no move to take Wilson's hand. "Why, Doctor Wilson. So coy."

"Are you coming?"

House raised his eyebrows and adopted a wistful tone. "Not yet."

"Oh, please." Wilson rolled his eyes again and bent down to grab House under the elbows.

House pulled back suddenly, leaving Wilson with handfuls of air. The mirth fell from his face. "Seriously. Not yet."

Oh. He wasn't ready to try moving his leg yet. Wilson gave an uncomfortable nod and glanced away. House wasn't usually so direct about his limitations, though Wilson had noticed a much more frank exchange between the two of them lately. "Okay." Wilson stepped closer, one foot placed next to House's left hip, the other between his legs, close enough to important parts that House scooted back ever so slightly, his expression guarded. Wilson crouched, straddling House's good leg, and slid his left knee along the tiles until it was nestled up in House's groin.

House drew a sharp breath and tilted his head back to thump against the cabinets as he looked at Wilson. "This is interesting."

Wilson jogged his eyebrows in response and settled his right knee on the floor as well, wrapping himself around House's left hip and pressing his own groin into House's abdomen. He took a moment to situate himself, then leaned over to nibble House's ear.

"Not that I'm complaining," House said, his voice gravelly. "But what are you doing?"

Wilson pressed House back into the cabinets and mumbled, "Distracting you." He ran his left hand down House's chest and abdomen, noting how House twitched into his touch. His fingers alit on House's crotch, and though Wilson felt only softness at the moment, House sighed and let his eyes drift shut. "Good?" Wilson asked.

House purred in response and Wilson began to rub him gently through his boxers. He shifted his mouth over to the hollow of House's throat and dipped his tongue in to taste the tang of House's skin. House fumbled to wrap his arms around Wilson's waist and then he pulled Wilson more firmly against him. Their mouths ended up meeting and Wilson plunged his tongue past House's lips before House had a chance to go on the offensive. He added some pressure to the hand at House's groin and shoved his fingers farther south to cup and roll his balls.

House let out an explosive exhale and pushed up ever so slightly against Wilson's hand, his fingers digging into the small of Wilson's back. Wilson drew his hand back a bit to better grip the growing bulge between House's legs, and then he squeezed just enough to hurt some. House grunted and definitely canted his pelvis upward at that, spreading his legs farther as he did so. Wilson tightened his grasp a fraction, his ears attuned to the squeak of House' skin against the tiles as the backs of his thighs dragged wider. House squirmed but tried to pull Wilson's body closer, his jaw slack while Wilson continued to force his tongue as deep into House's mouth as possible, his fingers kneading at the tautness encased in his hand.

House started to draw his left leg up and the impact of his thigh against Wilson's crotch left Wilson gasping in a wonderful way. He immediately rubbed himself against House's leg and thrust his semi-hard cock into House's stomach. House responded by dipping his fingers into the back of Wilson's flannel pants. He slid the waistband down past Wilson's ass and then took a handful of each buttock. The tips of his fingers pressed into the crevice between Wilson's cheeks and brushed down near his perineum. Wilson rose up slightly and moaned into House's mouth, fighting to keep his faculties intact enough to maintain his grasp on House's genitals. Plus, he wanted to move this party into the bathroom. As House had said, he needed to wash the rice from his hair. The hot water would do his leg good, but Wilson didn't want to leave House alone in the shower for fear that his body would betray him with another cramp or spasm. House would never consent to letting Wilson join him just to help him stand. Sex, on the other hand, was a perfectly acceptable excuse for Wilson to get in behind him and hold him up. Not that Wilson needed an excuse for wanting sex. It was just convenient at the moment.

Wilson angled his hips to make it clear that he wanted more from House's hands. He felt House's lips curl in a smile and Wilson delved forward. A thump reverberated through House's head as it impacted the cabinets, and then the resistance allowed Wilson to mash their faces together and make a valiant attempt to locate House's tonsils. House's teeth closed lightly over Wilson's tongue and Wilson tilted his head to better fit their mouths together. He felt the rumbling in his own throat as he groaned in anticipation, but the sound of it got swallowed between them.

Then one of House's hands moved over to Wilson's tailbone. House slid his middle finger down into the crevice of Wilson's ass until he reached the tight ring of muscles secreted within. Wilson tensed in anticipation, but all House did was circle his opening and press lightly against it, teasing him. Wilson bit down on House's tongue and squeezed his groin harder as punishment. House gasped before intensifying the motion of his mouth; Wilson could feel him hardening the rest of the way against his palm. House retaliated by simply resting the pad of his finger against Wilson's opening, immobile; he exerted just enough pressure to slowly drive Wilson insane without pushing into him.

Wilson's hips moved of their own accord to rut against House's clothed body, and he braced himself with his right arm against the cabinets. He released House's groin and flattened his palm against House's damp cotton boxers to stroke him in time with his own thrusts. Wilson could feel the heat where his left knee still sat pressed against House's crotch. He spread his legs to bring himself lower and rub harder against House's thigh, and his breathing turned harsh. His every exhale came tinged with a wordless, low sound of animalistic pleasure, and he broke off the kiss to throw his head back.

House's free hand latched onto the back of his neck to drag him back, and then House's lips were tracing the column of his throat, drawing Wilson's breaths out into full blown moans. Wilson shoved his clothed length harder into House's abdomen, and then House's finger suddenly breached him. Wilson reared up and froze for a second, crushing House up against the cabinet, and then he shoved himself down and pretty much sat on House's hand. He dipped his head and attacked House's mouth as he felt the finger in his ass press up hard against his prostate. Wilson expelled a string of expletives without disengaging his tongue from its rightful place in House's mouth. His hand drifted away from House's cock and found a nipple instead. He pinched it through House's shirt and twisted, and House jerked back to yelp. The cupboards clacked as he thrashed against them, arching with force enough to nearly unseat Wilson.

Wilson reached his breaking point a second later. He practically threw himself to his feet, bereft at the loss of the finger in his ass, his boxers hiked down around his upper thighs. Without bothering to pull them all the way off or on, he shoved his arms up under House's to drag him upright. There was little gentleness in it, but House didn't seem to mind. He put absolutely no weight on his right leg, but Wilson had expected that. They stumbled out of the kitchen, House one degree short of hopping, and Wilson kept them pressed tightly enough together that he could take on the majority of House's weight without it seeming that way. Every jostle as they walked caused their cocks to rub against each other. It set their respirations off and they panted as they continued to attempt to kiss and suckle at whatever skin they could reach with their mouths.

A small miracle got them into the bathroom without toppling over in a heap of clumsy arousal. Wilson maneuvered House to the toilet and pushed him down to sit. They broke off so that Wilson could turn the shower on, and then Wilson turned back to regard House. Their rapid breaths echoed in the small tiled room. House's eyes smoldered, his chest heaving as he sucked in air, his hands braced on the walls of the toilet nook. Wilson shed his clothes beneath that gaze and then moved forward the pull House's off as well without making him stand. The room grew stuffy from the heat of the shower.

Once they were both naked, House drew himself upright with the help of the wall, and Wilson wrapped himself over House's back, embracing him from behind with his hands splayed across House's chest and shoulders. They made their way awkwardly into the shower, in imminent danger of ending up in a tangled pile at the bottom of the tub. Wilson held onto the pipes with one hand, his other arm cinched across House's midsection in a bruising grip while House somehow dragged his lame leg in after them.

"You need a stall," Wilson remarked. He refrained from adding the 'handicap-accessible' part of that observation.

House heard the unspoken words and just glared over his shoulder, so Wilson got back to the task at hand. He nibbled at the back of House's neck and almost gagged when he encountered a piece of rice. House twisted around to look at him again, his face curious.

Wilson spit the rice out. "You thought that was good?"

House shrugged. "It should've been. Not your fault we fell asleep."

That gave Wilson pause and his eyes wandered up to explore the ceiling. "Wait. You lied to spare my feelings?"

"Um…no." House faced forward again.

Wilson noticed the tips of his ears turning red and grinned. "Yes, you did! You were being nice!"

"I was doing no such thing," House exhorted, but the back of his neck flushed scarlet too.

Wilson giggled; he couldn't help it. He sang out, "House was being nice." Then he leaned in to lick the shell of House's ear. "I'm gonna mark it on the calendar so I can celebrate it every year."

"You know, comments like those make me want to hold out on you." He swiveled just enough to catch Wilson's eye.

"Like you're capable of holding out," Wilson replied with a smirk.

"You think I'm not?"

"Is this turning into a bet?" Only after he said that did Wilson realized the drawback to daring House to go without sex.

House's eyes turned devilish and Wilson could practically feel them _not_ having sex for an excruciating length of time. "I think you can't go a week without it, as evidenced by all the affairs you had to have when you were married."

Time to put an end to talk like that. "You do realize that in order for you to win that bet, I have to cheat on you."

House shrugged, but something in his eyes hardened. "What's to cheat on? We're not officially anything more than – "

"Don't finish that," Wilson warned.

Both of them stiffened as a prelude to a standoff. "Why not?" House demanded. "We're friends, Wilson. Just friends."

Wilson let him go at that and backed out of the shower. "You're a jerk, you know that?"

House grabbed for the pipes as Wilson withdrew his support. "Where are you going?"

"Home." Wilson reached for a towel and scrubbed at himself, trying to ignore House when he turned off the shower and drew back the curtain. "Don't start. I'm not in the mood for a fight."

"Would you knock it off?"

Wilson straightened and opened his mouth to retort, but he had to catch House as he lurched out of the tub. They separated as quickly as possible and Wilson let his better nature show just long enough to pass him the other towel. "We're not just friends anymore, House. What part of 'I want more' did you not understand?"

"Actually, I think the verb you used was 'need,' not 'want.'"

"Yes, because splitting hairs is going to end this sooner," Wilson snapped. Then he sighed and dropped his eyes. "What do you want out of this anyway?"

House didn't answer, and Wilson glanced up to see him simply standing there, his hip cocked against the wall and the towel draped over his head. He wasn't drying his hair at the moment, just playing with the frayed edges of the terrycloth. After a few seconds, he fidgeted at Wilson's expectant silence and mumbled, "I don't want to fight either."

Wilson relented and took a deep breath, his eyes roaming the room at random. "We need to have this conversation eventually."

"I know." House nodded but seemed to disinclined to get it over with now.

Wilson nodded too. "Okay. I'll go find you your cane." He shuffled out of the warm, stifling bathroom and retreated down the cool hall to the living room. A modicum of searching yielded House's cane on the floor near the piano bench, and Wilson leaned over to pick it up. He heard House limp heavily out of the bathroom, then into his bedroom. When he followed, he found House perched on the edge of the bed, bent double to rifle through a pile of clothes on the floor. Wilson held his cane out to him and asked, "Are those even clean?"

There was no time to react. One moment, Wilson was standing there with House's cane extended in front of him. In the next, he had been grabbed and flung face-first onto the mattress. The cane clattered forgotten to the floor and Wilson's eyes bugged out as House pounced on top of him. He grabbed Wilson's forearms and held them against the bed, then slithered up his body until his mouth hovered just behind Wilson's right ear. His breath stirred Wilson's hair and prickled the nape of his neck as he growled, "If we're not _just_ friends, it means I have more to lose when you finally get bored with this."

Wilson fought to breathe, too aware of their nakedness and the way that House's left leg was pushed up between Wilson's, his body angled so that his still hard cock dug in against the small of Wilson's back. Wilson managed to gasp out, "I thought you were the one who was prone to boredom."

"And you're the one with the lousy track record when it comes to serious commitments."

Wilson shivered. House was angry – he could tell – but the sultry quality of his voice drove Wilson to distraction. He swallowed hard as House shifted to properly lay on top of him. Oh god. He was going to top twice in one night? "I'm not bored." _That_ went without saying.

"Yet." House settled so that his cock rested between Wilson's butt cheeks and rubbed himself against Wilson's opening. His lips skimmed over Wilson's neck, followed by the rough brush of stubble as he grazed Wilson's skin with his cheek.

Wilson willed his dick to stay out of the conversation, but it didn't really care what Wilson thought at the moment. "I'm not…I'm…" He gasped and shuddered as House nibbled his ear, undulating the rest of his body in such a way that Wilson moved too. He could feel the bedding beneath him graze and pull across the underside of his cock. Somehow, Wilson managed to force a coherent thought all the way to his mouth, and he snapped, "Like you have room to talk. You've only ever had one serious relationship in your entire life, and you pretty much terrorized her until she left you."

House bit down on Wilson's earlobe hard enough that Wilson flinched. "If she was going to disregard my wishes, the least she could have done was authorize the amputation."

Wilson started and tried to turn his head far enough to look at House. "You would have forgiven her for that?"

House shook his head a fraction, then ducked back down so that Wilson couldn't see his face anymore. "But I would have respected her for it. If you're going to ignore me for my own good, you should make damn sure it actually _is_ for my own good." House let go of Wilson's right arm and snaked a hand down between them. "She was too afraid of me losing my temper to do the right thing, so she crippled me instead." His fingers found Wilson's entrance and he pushed two of them inside without any sort of foreplay. He had already covered them in lube though Wilson couldn't remember seeing or hearing the tube. "How about you?" House murmured, his tone seductive enough that Wilson could barely understand the words themselves past the heat growing in his belly. "Would you have done the right thing?"

Wilson choked over his own saliva and bucked into the mattress without meaning to, his hands fisted in the sheets. _Say something, idiot – you have to say something. He's waiting for a response._ "Oohhhhhohhmmmpgh." Brilliant.

"That's what I thought." House slid off to the left so that he could work his fingers in deeper.

"I didn't…_oh_…answer," Wilson mumbled before turning his face into the comforter to muffle himself. His hips shoved forward and he tried to pull his left arm out from under House's hand. House thwarted him by thrusting his fingers up against Wilson's prostate. "_Mmmph!_" Wilson froze for a second, then turned his head to demand, horny and impatient, "What do you want me to say?"

House stilled his fingers but kept them pressed firmly into the wall of Wilson's rectum, up against his prostate. Wilson squirmed and fought to pay attention, but he was swiftly losing that battle. "Say you could do what's best for _me_, not whatever soothes your conscience."

"Fine, yes, whatever!" Wilson yelped. "Just…just…_ohhhhhh_…" He stuffed his face back into the comforter and raised his ass to increase the stimulation.

"That's just your dick talking," House replied, but his voice had lost its edge and turned fond again. He shoved a third finger in, crooked them all, and jabbed Wilson more forcefully.

"Oh, _shit_…House…this isn't the time for a serious discussion." Wilson wriggled and then thrust against the bedding, desperate for friction. "Please, later…we'll talk later…" His lungs emptied and he gave up on trying to think anymore.

"Not later," House replied, but he withdrew his fingers and settled back on top of Wilson, the tip of his penis nudging Wilson's opening. "Getting attached to you isn't a good idea. I should know better by now."

Wilson struggled beneath House's weight, trying to lift his hips to compel House to do something with the hardness pressed against him. "I know. Oh…_god, _I know, House…please…"

"I bet you can't go two days without flirting with some petite damsel in distress." House's hands moved to Wilson's shoulders and his blunt fingernails dug into the soft skin above Wilson's collarbone. "Can you?"

Wilson gasped and managed to draw his knees up far enough both to spread himself farther open and lift his pelvis. He braced both elbows against the mattress and shoved back against House, elongating his torso like a cat stretching in the sunlight. His breath shuddered in his chest and he hung his head without answering, too aroused to really care what House was saying right now. "Please," he panted, embarrassed by how soft and high-pitched his voice had become. "House, please…"

House canted his hips without warning and Wilson scrambled for a handhold as the tip of House's penis entered him, slick and warm. "Answer me, Wilson."

"N-no flirting," Wilson gasped, barely more than a whimper. He managed to set his knees wider against the bed and he reared back, forcing House's cock all the way in. "_…nnnngh…hhhhnn_!" He hissed and panted while House draped his arms around and underneath Wilson's body. Wilson fought to hold them both up, his muscles shivering at the effort. "…Oh, my…" He grunted and grit his teeth, and then House finally started moving where it counted. Wilson nearly sobbed in gratitude, his entire body rigid from maintaining the position.

House curled over Wilson, enveloping his upper body like the shell of a cocoon. Wilson angled himself to take the strain off of House's legs by bearing the brunt of House's weight, his face mashed into the blankets as he let loose an embarrassing array of happy sounds. House clung to him, anchoring himself on top of Wilson, and Wilson moved to compliment his shallow thrusts. He could tell that House was avoiding his prostate on purpose and he growled as he tilted his hips in an attempt to foil House's delaying tactic. House stopped him by clenching his right nipple between thumb and forefinger.

"_Nnngngh!_" Wilson arched and threw his head back, only to end up with his chin in the mattress as House dug his feet in and shoved him forward. It trapped Wilson's arms between his chest and the mattress, along with House's hand, and House refused to loosen his grip on Wilson's nipple. House thrust harder, penetrating deeper, and Wilson finally felt the fire as House hit his prostate. "Shitshit – _yes! – _ohhhh god…"

Wilson's words dribbled off and he blinked at the far wall without seeing it, his mouth open wide as he drew in ragged breaths to cool his seared lungs. He didn't realize he was still making noise until the keening reached his ears, and he immediately bit his tongue to cut it off. His knees lost traction and slid out from under him and he collapsed under House's weight, the breath crushed from his lungs, his cock squished into the bedclothes and House's hand stuck clamping Wilson's nipple. Wilson's eyes bugged and when he tried to draw breath, his lungs worked backwards to push out air that was no longer in there. His entire body convulsed as if he were drowning and his mouth worked like a fish out of water. He managed to swallow and croak something unintelligible with the last bit of air left to him.

House scrambled to get enough purchase with his good limbs to lift off a bit and let Wilson breathe. He didn't pull out, though, and he didn't waste any of his time in waiting. As Wilson sucked in a much needed breath, House's mouth latched onto his shoulder and bit, his tongue flickering around trapped skin. Wilson's newfound inhalation fled and he saw spots swim across his vision as he let out a soundless moan. Whatever blood remained in the rest of his body rerouted itself southward as House dug his right arm under Wilson and hauled him up. House kept Wilson's ass flush with his groin as he sat up on his knees, Wilson's back plastered against his chest.

Wilson tried to stop him because he wasn't sure that he could prevent himself from accidentally sitting on House's bad leg in that position, but his concern proved unfounded. House rose up before either of them could settle into an uncomfortable stance, and Wilson's arms shot out to catch them both against the headboard. He thought it was an accident until he realized that House was still propelling him forward, and then he let out a strangled cry as he ended up sandwiched between House's overheated body and smooth, cold wood. "Oh god."

"I'm flattered," House rasped. Then he grabbed Wilson's arms and draped them over the headboard. Their every movement sent shocks through Wilson's system as House's cock shifted and rubbed against the inside of Wilson's body. "Don't let go," House warned.

"Unngg." Wilson hung over the headboard, half aware of cold oak corners digging into his armpits, but more concerned with the delicious sensations rippling through his ass. House hooked his arms over the headboard as well, to the outside of Wilson's, and settled more firmly in than Wilson could remember him ever being. "Holy…hell…House…"

"Alliteration's a fun parlor trick," House gasped.

Wilson could feel House trembling, his thighs quivering where they rested against the insides of Wilson's. His rapid breathing rhythmically compressed Wilson's chest as well, quashed as Wilson was between a…well, a hard place and another hard place, he supposed. Then he giggled.

House's mouth found the side of Wilson's face. Wilson could barely hear him ask, "What's funny?"

"Classical reference," Wilson replied around a groan. "You wouldn't appreciate it." He shivered but had no leverage to push back on House's cock. "Hurry up already."

House finished situating himself and then slammed into Wilson without preamble.

"_Oh-mmm!_" Wilson clawed at the headboard and dug his chin into it. House had plastered him in place and all he could do was hang on as House established a fast, sharp rhythm. They had never tried this sort of position, and Wilson glanced aside to where House gripped the headboard. His arms bunched with each thrust as he added the force that his bad leg usually prevented. Wilson had thought he liked bottoming before, but holy god in a wheelbarrow…_this_ went way beyond comparison to anything he had experienced before.

Wilson clamped his eyes shut and focused on the sensation of House's cock moving in and out, slipping along fired nerves and jabbing his prostate in short bursts of white hot pleasure. Wilson swore that he could distinguish every contour and ridge and vein along the length of House's penis, and it sent pressure shooting like electricity from Wilson's ass, through his abdomen and groin to the tip of his own cock, radiating to glow about his balls and upper thighs. He listened to House's labored grunts and the high-pitched, soft cries that he made each time he surged forward. Wilson twisted to find House's mouth and their tongues made a lazy attempt to duel.

House abruptly broke the kiss and moaned, "Fuck…Wilson…" Then House crushed him harder against the headboard and shifted his arms to pull himself higher. He molded himself to Wilson's body, his face buried in the side of Wilson's neck, and though his motions intensified, he lost his rhythm.

Wilson clenched his ass and House rammed into him harder than before, his breath exploding in a groan the likes of which Wilson had never heard from him before. He squeezed himself around House's cock again, just to see if House would repeat himself. Instead of a groan, House let out a sharp cry and jostled Wilson as he fought to keep moving. The sound of it drove Wilson so close to the edge that he had to let go of the headboard and shove his hand down to grab his own cock.

There was no room for Wilson to stroke but he gripped himself and hunched against the headboard, relishing the wave building in the base of his spine. It ebbed with each impact against his prostate, then receded, only to rush back. House kept him pinned, though he hardly seemed capable of maintaining his coordination as he drilled Wilson into the headboard. Fire danced through Wilson's nervous system, leaving burns and aches in its wake, every cell in his body begging for more, for relief, for anything but the expectant swell that tortured him before release could claim him.

Wilson worked his fingers around his cock, trying to create just enough friction in the confined space to bring himself off. He couldn't make it, though; House's thrusts edged him higher and higher, but the summit kept receding. Finally, Wilson let himself go and seized the headboard again with a strangled, infuriated cry. He grit his teeth and breathed through his nose to stay silent after that, though he wanted desperately to wail his frustration until House did something to remedy the insufferable situation. Wilson didn't think he could take any more – his body twitched and spasmed but he was stuck on the near side of bliss, so far gone that he should have come four times by now, the pressure was so great. His breath fell apart and he didn't care if he was drawing air or not at this point. It was like his body had disintegrated and left him with nothing but heat, sparks, and House.

House must have finally reached his limit too. He let go of the headboard with his right hand and they skewed to the left, Wilson scrabbling when House's weight threatened to wrench his arms from the oak. They bumped lightly to the side and then House reached with his free hand to seize Wilson's groin. Wilson gasped and shoved his ass down on House's cock while his back arched away and his head came to rest on House's shoulder. House twisted his hand so that the base of Wilson's cock came to rest against the webbed skin between two fingers. The grip confused Wilson until House gathered his balls in his fingers and then squeezed the base of Wilson's cock between his middle and ring fingers.

The sob came out on a stuttered breath and Wilson threw his head back. He grabbed House's wrist, though he didn't know if he intended to pry his fingers off his genitals or just add to them. In the end, he merely held on as House drew him closer with that hand and continued to pound into him, albeit erratically. Wilson was pretty sure he stopped breathing the moment House's hand latched onto his groin, and he bit his tongue as his body stiffened. The pressure all about his cock and balls, and the fullness in his ass conspired to finally hurtle him over the edge. He bellowed something unintelligible, frozen at the pinnacle.

It felt like every ounce of ecstasy that Wilson was capable of feeling had pooled near his bladder, and his orgasm drew it out of him in streams of bliss, dragging pleasure on a hook from his base to his tip until it swelled his glans and burst. Wilson jerked and thrust against House's palm, though House's grip didn't allow for any friction. Instead of holding him back, that shoved Wilson's orgasm a notch higher. His hand slipped from the headboard and they both fell back, rolling somehow so that they avoided House's bad leg. Wilson fumbled to grab himself, suspended somewhere agonizing, coming but not, and then colors exploded. Wilson writhed back against House and seized his cock, his fist pumping furiously as House's hips twitched into him a few more times. He could hear himself crying out uncontrollably and he didn't care as his head spun and his body tensed, and the ejaculate ran down his fingers until he felt wrung out and empty and completely satisfied.

Neither of them moved for several seconds. Wilson realized that House had come at some point, though he had no idea when. He was too busy basking in his own orgasm and panting into the comforter to really care about the semen dribbling from his backside. House had yet to release his genitals, and each subtle twitch of House's muscles as his nervous system cooled sent a fresh spike through Wilson's body. They laid there, tangled in each other, neither of them quite boneless for some reason.

House finally peeled his hand from Wilson's crotch and they settled more comfortably, House still draped half over Wilson's back. Instead of withdrawing to reclaim his personal space, House scooted closer and left his arm dangling over Wilson's waist, his head resting between Wilson's shoulder blades.

Wilson's breath caught in surprise. "House?"

"Don't."

Pieces of their coital conversation came drifting back to Wilson and he tried to finagle them into something coherent. "Is this because _you_ want more, or because _I_ want more?"

House voice deepened to something almost threatening. "Wilson…"

Wilson ignored the warning tone. "I don't want you doing this just because you're afraid I'll leave if you don't."

House shoved away from him and flopped over onto his own side of the bed, though they were both upside down with their feet brushing the headboard. "Fuck you," he muttered. "And not in the good way."

Wilson raised himself on his elbows to look at House, but House rolled to show him his back and dragged a sheet up to cover himself. "House, I just – "

"How long have you known me?" House demanded without looking at him. "Since when do I do anything just to appease you?"

"Lately?" Wilson replied. "There are some glaring examples."

"Again: Fuck you."

Wilson groaned and dropped his face into the comforter. "Please, don't do this now. Why can't you just take my questions at face value?"

"Because there is no face value."

Wilson sighed and rolled his head on the blanket until he could stare at the back of House's head. "Quit being so damn difficult."

"Quit being an idiot."

"House – "

"Just get out."

Wilson stayed put.

"_Leave!_"

"No."

House gave a whole-body harrumph but fell silent. Eventually, Wilson felt exhaustion creeping in, and his eyes drifted shut. He didn't actually intend to fall asleep, but…

--tbc


	8. Chapter 8

The alarm on his cell phone woke Wilson from a deep slumber. He directed a fuzzy gaze at the ceiling and blinked, lost.

"Shut it off or I'll break it," House grumbled.

Wilson's head rolled to the side and he found himself staring at House's feet where they tented the comforter. He had righted himself during the night and Wilson hadn't even stirred.

"You have three more seconds to kill it."

"Quit grouching." Wilson gingerly sat up, covered in tiny aches that hadn't been there when he'd fallen asleep. Since when had sex entailed this much recovery time? He leaned over the side of the bed and fumbled blindly for his pants.

"They're in the living room, moron."

"Oh. Right." Wilson straightened and slid to the floor, the wood cool against the soles of his feet. "So that whole part about you breaking it if I didn't shut it off…that was just a bluff."

"I never said _when_ I'd break it," House replied, his words slurred into the pillow.

Ah, yes. Loophole. "You break my phone and I'll drop your PlayStation from the roof of the hospital." And with that, Wilson shuffled out of the room, thereby having the last word and somehow (he had no idea how it happened) winning the exchange.

Or not. House said something after Wilson had already wandered halfway down the hall.

"It doesn't count if I can't understand what you're saying," Wilson yelled back. House didn't bother repeating himself. "Huh." Wilson scratched his head and regarded the living room as if it were sentient. "I guess I _do_ win that round."

After silencing his phone, Wilson set about getting ready for work. A quick shower served to wake him up the rest of the way and he poked House's shoulder on his way to find some clothes to pull up over his boxers and undershirt. "Get up. You're gonna be late."

House griped something into the pillow.

"Whatever," Wilson retorted, though he actually had no idea what House had said. "Get up or I won't drive you to the hospital."

House rolled onto his back, dragging the sheet and a tangle of blankets around his body as he did so. He gave Wilson a disinterested look, which in House's universe meant that he was still pissed about the night before. "Make me."

Wilson glared at him, and then an idea struck him. A House-worthy idea at that. "Alright, fine," Wilson chirped, dropping the pants he had located in the interim. He savored the confusion that graced House's features, and then he lunged.

"Amph!" House squirmed but he had caught himself pretty well in the blankets even before Wilson pounced. "What the hell are you doing?"

Wilson sprawled out on top of him to hold down whatever parts of him the bedclothes failed to restrain, and then he shoved his palm between House's legs. "I'm getting you up."

House's eyes widened as Wilson began to vigorously stroke him through the comforter, rapid and hard, and completely without mercy. "Cut it out!" House struggled to free himself but he had inadvertently rolled himself up like a burrito when he turned over.

Wilson smirked and rubbed harder. "Make me."

"Ngg-hn!" House arched against his will and clamped his eyes shut. "Wilson…not funny…"

"Not meant to be." Wilson cupped his hand and kept up the pace. The comforter chafed Wilson's palm but he didn't care – the fabric burn was so worth it.

"Slow…please, slower…just…" House pressed his head into the pillow and grit his teeth before letting out an anguished cry. He managed to slither an arm out through the blankets but Wilson seized it before House could do anything. "…_hhhhoh_…no more…" He writhed but the blankets were cinched too tight for him to get anywhere.

Wilson ignored him and intensified his efforts. He knew that his strokes were too fast, too rough; he could force House to an orgasm in spite of that, and he did. Just over a minute later, House curled as much as he could and then threw himself back, his left heel digging into the mattress and his pelvis canted up as he gasped and shuddered. Wilson only stopped stroking after House had stilled and then started to wriggle again. House slowly opened his eyes, his entire face etched in shock as he stared at Wilson, still fighting to control his breathing.

Wilson treated him to a self-satisfied smirk and then leaned over, close enough to kiss. He evaded House's mouth, however, when it sought to meet Wilson's lips. "See if you can sleep _now_." Then Wilson withdrew and made a point of slithering across House's body as he climbed off the bed. He picked up his pants and sauntered out without looking back.

It worked; Wilson heard the shower running a few minutes later, and then House stumped around in the bedroom for a little bit. While House got himself dressed, Wilson finished cleaning up the mess on the kitchen floor, then set a pot of coffee to brew and toasted some bread. He looked up from a patient file when House limped into the living room, then pursed his lips as House slumped down on the couch. That was House's seriously-thinking-up-new-and-creative-ways-to-avoid-work pose. Which basically meant he was scheming, and the world was in imminent danger of spiraling into the abyss.

Wilson poured a cup of coffee and walked it out to him. "Here. We have to leave in ten minutes."

"Thanks." House took the proffered coffee and set it on the coffee table. Then he reached up and grabbed Wilson around the waist from behind.

"Whoa!" Wilson fell back, terrified that he was about to crash into House's bad leg and ruin both their days, but House had already twisted sideways on the couch. He dragged Wilson down on top of him and hooked his fingers between the buttons of Wilson's shirt cuffs to hold both of his arms up and out of the way. House's other hand grabbed a handful of Wilson's crotch while he threw his good leg over both of Wilson's to trap him in place. "What is this, revenge?"

"I'm competitive by nature." House squeezed Wilson's groin and then started rubbing circles through Wilson's pants.

"We have to…go…House, I have to wear these to the hospital!" He worked his right leg out from under House's, only to have House recapture it by throwing his bad leg over it. At that, Wilson stopped struggling, at least with his lower body; he was afraid to hurt House. He tried to yank his shirt cuffs away from House's fingers instead. And he really wished that his dick would stop weighing in on the issue. "Stop – you can pay me back later."

"Nuh-uh."

Wilson tried to stay flat, he really did, but his stupid back arched, which increased the surface area covered by House's hand. Wilson's breath hitched. "These are the only dress pants I have here!"

"You should've considered that before you molested me with a blanket."

Wilson moaned and let his eyelids flutter, but only because he couldn't help it. "There are times I really hate you, House."

"Poor me."

House left off stroking and took up kneading Wilson's genitals instead, which was ten times worse because Wilson ended up fully hard in what felt like a single heartbeat. It stole Wilson's breath and he found himself angling his pelvis to press his ass into House. He was situated between House's legs so he knew that House wasn't even slightly turned on by this, which irritated Wilson. House's morning dose of pain meds must have already taken effect. Wilson flexed instead, inadvertently thrusting against House's hands as he did so. "For the love of – I'll do anything you want, just stop!"

House twisted his fingers in around Wilson's length, encasing him in heat through two layers of fabric. Then he set up the same swift pace that Wilson had used against him half an hour ago. "How's that? Better?"

Wilson bunched his hands around fists full of his shirt and tie. The cotton burned as House stroked him but it felt incredible. "Nnnn…oh." That might have been a denial. Wilson couldn't tell what his brain and speech centers were doing because his cock was hogging all his attention. And then he was spreading his legs father and trying to draw his feet up to brace against the couch cushions. House's legs prevented the second part. With that, Wilson dug the back of his head into House's shoulder and just gave in.

A minute later, Wilson tensed and clenched every muscle under his voluntary control. He tried not to make any noise, but the grunts made their way out through his clenched teeth. House kept up stroking until Wilson was spent, his fist a bit too tight for comfort, especially considering the cotton chafing Wilson's length. Then he released Wilson and shoved him off the couch before he'd had a chance to recover.

Wilson's shoulder struck the leg of the coffee table as he tipped over onto the floor. He blinked a few times while his brain caught up to the fact that he was on the carpet. "What the hell, House?"

"I'm sorry." House was emphatically _not_ sorry, judging by his expression as he fake-smiled down at Wilson. "But my desire to keep this relationship shallow prevents me from snuggling you during your post-coital haze."

Wilson glared as House somehow got to his feet and stepped over Wilson without the aid of his cane. "Jerk."

"Hypocrite."

"House!" Wilson struggled to his knees and then grimaced at the squishy feeling in his pants. This was much less enjoyable than the last time he had failed to remove his clothes for such a thing. And his entire groin was tender from cotton burn. He took a few ginger steps, and then paused when House came back into the room wearing his coat. "Wait – you're leaving?"

House shrugged. "I don't want to be late."

Wilson watched him sling his backpack over his shoulder and make for the door, wondering what sort of emotion that sarcastic mask concealed. "House – "

"See you later," House exclaimed, too cheery for that to mean anything good.

The door slammed behind him and Wilson refrained from shifting his weight in time with his agitation; it made his boxers chafe. He rolled his eyes instead and picked his way through the apartment. A second shower cleaned him off and went a long way toward soothing his groin. Afterwards, he strode into House's bedroom, naked and angry. His shirt was fine but he couldn't possibly wear his suit pants now. He fished a pair of House's clean boxers from the bureau, then rummaged for a pair of pants that might fit him. As if it weren't bad enough that House was a juvenile pain in the ass, his narrow hips made it impossible for Wilson to stuff himself into any of House's work clothes. He sighed and pulled on some flannel sleep pants instead, resigned to the need to stop by his own place. He was already late. What was another half hour?

Back at his own place, Wilson changed his entire outfit. He didn't have any other clean dress slacks to match the shirt and tie that he had been wearing that morning. While he searched for a different tie he came across the burgundy one that he had given to House for a court appearance three years ago. Wilson stared at it for a second; it was the one he had gagged House with the night he had tied him to the desk chair. Wilson must have mixed it in with his own dry cleaning and then brought it back here.

A devilish grin crept across Wilson's face. If House wanted to play hardball, fine. Wilson flipped up his shirt collar and threaded the tie into a Windsor knot. Two could play at that game.

* * *

Wilson showed up at the hospital just under an hour late, partially due to traffic and partially because he had delayed long enough to wash the dishes at his own place before rushing out. He had called ahead to have his one morning appointment covered by another oncologist, so he wasn't pressed for time at the moment.

After gathering his messages at the front desk, Wilson made his way to the elevators, and then up to the fourth floor. He glanced into the diagnostics conference room as he headed toward his own office, then paused. House was sitting alone at the table, covered in sweat and breathing harder than he should. In fact, he had his fingers pressed up against his carotid. Even from the hallway, Wilson could see them trembling.

Wilson detoured, his revenge strategy forgotten, and set his briefcase down near House's elbow. "What's up? Another spasm?"

House shook his head. "Patient coded before my team got here. Her throat closed up; I had to try to give her CPR for fifteen minutes before a nurse could find somebody competent enough to trache her."

Wilson glanced out into the hall just as the elevator dinged and expelled three nurses returning from a coffee break. He looked back down at the back of House's head. "Why didn't _you_ trache her?"

"We might have been outside," House admitted. "She's a two-pack-a-day smoker and she hadn't had a fix in almost eighteen hours."

Wilson rocked back on his heels. "You took her out for a smoke."

"Yes, Mister Cancer Doctor," House snapped, though his breath was still short and the words rasped in his throat. "I took a critically ill patient outside so that she could suck in some carcinogens and nearly die. I was desperate for the excuse to consult with you."

Wilson made an exasperated face and ignored him. "You're having trouble breathing."

"That's what happens when you have to push oxygen for two." He absently reached down with his free hand to rub his knuckles over his thigh.

"Your leg hurt?"

House gave a half-hearted nod. "Kneeled on the concrete while I gave her CPR."

"Ah." Wilson kneaded the back of his neck and circled House's chair. "Did you take something yet?"

House's pointedly not-amused smile made Wilson look away. "Three vicodin." His tone dared Wilson to say something about that – taking a triple dose of vicodin while on a scripted regimen of other medications, after he already had trouble breathing.

In spite of the fact that he shouldn't mix his meds like that, Wilson didn't say anything. House had only cut back on the vicodin under Ngyen's plan, not stopped it altogether. Taking three at once wasn't exactly the smartest thing he could do, but there was no doubting that House's built-up tolerance for opiates worked in his favor at times like this. He must not carry the fentanyl around with him. "Well. Is the patient alive, at least?"

House snorted. "Yeah. Believe me, I'm thrilled."

"You look it. Do you need anything?"

"Oral sex."

Wilson gave a wry smile and rolled his eyes. "Besides that."

House didn't answer right away; Wilson looked up to find him peering at Wilson's chest, his head cocked to one side. Oh, right. The tie. Wilson made a point of smoothing it down, but when he met House's gaze, he found hurt there. They stared at each other and then House looked away and pressed his lips together as if he had expected nothing less.

Wilson shut his eyes momentarily, then sighed and sat down in the next chair. He dared to reach out and tug House's sleeve back down over the faded bruise on his left wrist, then studied his shoes. "Look, I'm sorry. It was a stupid thing to do." He paused with his lips drawn in between his teeth, sheepish, then said, "You know, I'm not incapable of committing to a serious relationship."

"I know." House's eyebrows twitched. "Even after you cheated on your wives, you clung to them. You just…have impulses."

Wilson couldn't really deny that, so he just looked down. "Yeah." He licked his lips and looked around the office at random, then said, "I don't…" A moment passed while Wilson collected his thoughts, and then he started over. "I think I was enamored of the idea of them," Wilson admitted. "Of wives, of – of girlfriends… Perfect little houses with white picket fences, Stepford wives, two-point-five kids playing with a golden retriever…"

"I don't like dogs," House interjected. "And I'm pretty sure neither of us is ever going to bear children."

Wilson gave a tiny, lopsided smile and leaned his elbows on his thighs, looking at his hands clasped between his knees. The words left him slowly, but they _did_ leave him. "I know. But I don't really think I want that. The – the wives and the perfect households and the dinner parties…I was never satisfied with them. I kept thinking I would be, eventually, but it never happened." Wilson glanced up to gauge House's reaction, then averted his gaze again when he found House watching him intently. He almost didn't bother continuing, but since he had already gotten this far… "You…you make me happy. I don't know why – you're crass, immature…I don't even _like_ you half the time, but…" He shrugged, moving his entire upper body in the process. "I know I haven't always been nice to you, and I never really apologize for…well, for anything." He tried to give a self-deprecating snort, but it didn't quite work out. "I dunno, House. I know you'll never say it back, but…I…love you. It's not something I have any control over, I just…" Wilson sucked in a deep breath and shook his head. "I just do. And it's okay if you don't feel it back, I just…I wanted to tell you…that."

When House didn't say anything, Wilson looked up to find him watching the snow fall on the balcony outside, his face blank. Slowly, House's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline and he drawled, "I make you happy?" That sentiment did not seem to please him. On the contrary, he sounded bewildered. Wilson started to respond, but House interrupted, seemingly oblivious to Wilson. "Well, if you're happy, then I'm…" He shrugged.

Wilson dropped his head into his hands for a moment. "Please don't start with _that_ again." He would have said more, but House sprang to his feet without so much as glancing at Wilson and escaped to his office. The glass door swung shut behind him and House pulled the blinds. Lopsided, thumping footsteps carried him to the deeper recesses of his office, and then his desk chair squeaked. After that, nothing. The message was clear; Wilson was not welcome to follow.

"Dammit." Wilson scrubbed at his face, then grabbed his briefcase and headed for his own office. He had no idea what else to do; he had either escalated whatever disagreement they were having, or he had scared House off for good. Whichever it was, Wilson didn't have the stamina to face it right now so he buried himself in paperwork and tried to forget what had just transpired.

* * *

"It's not a staph infection," Wilson said yet again. "It's not infected at all."

His irritating clinic patient actually pulled out a library copy of a medical textbook, tabbed in a dozen places with post-its, and shoved it under Wilson's nose. "It looked just like that this morning," she insisted, pointing to an illustration.

"Okay." Wilson dragged out a number of facial expressions usually reserved for House's more colorful antics. "First off, that's not a picture of a staph infection. It's psoriasis. And second, that wouldn't have worn off in four hours after the application of Neosporin. You're fine. Go home." He stood and moved toward the door.

"How the hell would you know?" the woman demanded.

Wilson rolled his eyes before turning around to say, "Because I'm a doctor." He flicked his hand at the book resting on her lap. "And the picture's labeled."

"Yeah, then I have psoriasis!" the patient yelled at Wilson's retreating back.

He pulled the door shut and exchanged an incredulous look with the nurse on duty. "Make a note in her file – hypochondriac. And page Doctor Stone because I doubt that girl is going anywhere without treatment for her 'psoriasis.'" He made quotation marks in the air and then took the chart to the outbox.

The nurse raised her brows in response and picked up the phone.

Wilson grabbed the next file and flipped it open on the counter. It took a second for the presence behind him to register, and he lifted his head a fraction. "House? Quit lurking."

"I know what you're doing," House said.

His voice sounded downright cold, enough so that Wilson abandoned his file and turned around to press his back against the counter. House's eyes were like ice but he wore one of his signature smirks. The expression unsettled him. "Great. Saves us from that really annoying scene at the end where the nefarious bad guy outlines his scheme to destroy everything good and pure in the world, allowing the good guy to ingeniously foil his plan at the last second." Wilson paused and held up a finger. "Oh no, wait. That would make _you_ the somewhat dull, of-average-intelligence good guy, and _me_ the ruggedly handsome evil genius." He shook his head. "Nope. Doesn't work."

House reached out to grasp Wilson's tie. Wilson flinched, but all House did was wrench at the knot and drag the tie over Wilson's head, leaving his hair and collar askew. "This is mine." He held it up like a trophy and then stalked away.

Wilson watched him retreat to the lobby, then into the hallway leading to the men's room. "Nurse? Could you sign me out for the afternoon?"

"Sure, Doctor Wilson."

"Thanks." Wilson replaced the file in the pending tray and slipped his pen back into his lab coat pocket, careful to make it even with the rest. Then he straightened his collar and smoothed his hair back, and headed out of the clinic.

When Wilson strode into the men's room, he half expected to find House masturbating with the disputed tie at a urinal just to screw with him. Thankfully, he wasn't at a urinal. He was in a stall. House's voice floated out over the door. "I can hear you disapproving."

"Tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing."

"Come in and find out."

Wilson stomped up to the stall door, his hands on his hips. "Is this how you react to declarations of love? Steal articles of clothing and mark them with your – "

House unlocked the stall door and cracked it open. Nothing appeared out of place, but knowing House, that didn't mean anything. "Why'd you say it?"

Wilson's mind slid off into the realms of confusion and he responded the best way he knew how when House waxed philosophical. "I was hoping to get in your pants. Silly me; should have known it would never work."

House pursed his lips in a lopsided, irritated glare and shut the door again.

"Okay, fine," Wilson barked. "I said it because I meant it, okay? It was going to slip out eventually so I just went ahead and said it now." He stepped back and bent far enough to catch a glimpse of House's feet under the door. House was leaning against the wall, his cane planted firmly on his right side. "Do you want me to apologize for it? Take it back?"

"I want things back to normal." House's sneakers moved and the stall door crashed open, nearly braining Wilson where he stood at an angle. "I have a case," House muttered, elbowing past him. He flung the unsullied tie back at Wilson as he approached the door, then disappeared into the hallway.

Wilson sighed and smoothed the burgundy material between his palms. Great.

* * *

Wilson tried stopping by 221B after work but it was dark; House must have decided on a late night at the hospital. Ordinarily, Wilson would go on in and make himself at home, knowing that House wouldn't mind. Tonight, though, he headed back to his own place, worried that House's assertion about wanting things back to normal meant ending the more involved facet of his friendship with Wilson. Wilson honestly didn't know what he thought about that – if he could just go back to being couch buddies with House. They had been too intimate to undo it now; surely House saw that.

A tense few days followed, during which House only spoke to Wilson when work demanded it; and even then, he used minions whenever possible. House's patient got better and was moved out of the ICU, which was when Wilson started to really worry that it was over. Almost a week had gone by since they had spent the night together – since they had even eaten _lunch_ together. He could feel the stomach acid eating him a new ulcer; instead of coffee the next Thursday morning, he drank pink bismuth and tried not to think.

Wilson was actually surprised when House stomped into his office that evening, his eyes downcast and his body strung with tension. Wilson set his pencil down and braced himself. House was going to end it. He was going to treat Wilson to that same bitter medicine that Wilson had tried to shove down his throat after Amber died – crap about having the right to walk away, and to move on, and –

The words tumbled out into the room at breakneck speeds and fell dead to the floor. "I cleaned out half my closet."

Wilson's thoughts ground to a screeching halt. He didn't dare look up, though he could see House in his periphery, left hand in his pocket, thumping his cane on the carpet while he gazed out the balcony door.

"And a drawer…in the dresser. I thought…since you spend so much time at my place anyway…" House's lips drew in and he pressed them together. Wilson could see his shoulders lift and expand with every shallow, nervous breath he drew. "You might…you know…want to keep some stuff there."

Wilson finally looked up to gaze at House's back, hardly daring to hope that he heard right. His words crept out when he prompted, "Is this…?" And then he couldn't finish so he left it open and gestured even though House couldn't see him.

"More," House croaked softly. "It's more."

Wilson's eyes wandered for a second, and then he climbed to his feet and crossed the room. Their reflections floated in the glass door, set against the dusky sky, and Wilson studied House's face in it. He looked terrified. "That would be nice," Wilson said. "That's – yeah. I'd like to keep some stuff there." He nodded like an idiot, just because he didn't want to be misunderstood. "What changed your mind?"

A flash of House's snark snuck out. "Who says I changed my mind? I've had to wash my own laundry all week and nobody stocked my kitchen for me."

Wilson bounced on his toes and stuffed his hands in his pockets, but that was all the response he offered, aside from a knowing smile.

House's eyes left the door and managed to alight on a file cabinet halfway to Wilson's knees. He shrugged, withdrawn, then admitted, "I missed you."

Wilson slipped his arms around House's waist from behind and inhaled the musky scent on his clothes. Coming from House in that particular tone of voice, admitting that he missed Wilson was pretty much on a par with Wilson's declaration in the diagnostics lounge a week ago. He took House's cane from his hand and hooked it on the balcony door handle, then slid the blazer from House's shoulders and tossed it over the coat tree.

"Wilson?"

"Hmm?" Wilson put his arms back around House's body and molded them together. His tongue flickered out to taste the nape of House's neck, eliciting a string of shivers.

House shifted his weight to the left, one hand braced on the balcony door near his cane. "Is this going where I think it's going?"

In response, Wilson ran his left hand down the planes of House's body to his groin. "I missed you too." He lingered to rub between House's legs a few times, then lifted his hand to run across House's cheek instead. House's breath escaped him in a rush and he leaned back almost imperceptibly, relaxing into Wilson's embrace.

"I thought we agreed on no office sex way back in November. This is twice you've tried to break it."

"I lied," Wilson mumbled against House's shoulder, where he nosed the collars of House's shirts out of the way of his tongue. "And clinic sex is technically not included under the banner of 'office' sex."

In mock disbelief, House declared, "You really _are_ a slut."

"You complaining?"

"Hell no." He shifted again, a tiny hop-step back into Wilson.

"How's your leg?"

House stiffened a bit but Wilson's soft nips all along his neck melted him again in short order. "Fine for now. Why?"

"Because I've always had this fantasy of doing it in my office chair," Wilson confessed.

"Oh." The lust was evident in House's tone. He tilted his head around to gaze at Wilson's desk chair. "How exactly would that work?"

Wilson tightened his arm around House's abdomen and cupped him again with his free hand. A soft sigh rumbled from House's throat and his eyes drifted closed. "You could sit on my lap."

"Mmm."

That sounded an awful lot like acquiescence, so Wilson walked backwards a few steps, pulling House with him. "We have to be quiet," Wilson murmured. He moved his hand from House's groin and flicked open the button on his jeans. "There are still a handful of nurses on the floor." He slipped his fingers into House's pants and palmed his slightly hard cock. "Think you can do that?"

"Ohhhh…" House's hand slipped from the balcony door and came to rest on Wilson's wrist. He laced the fingers of his other hand with the one that Wilson had drawn about his waist, and pulled them up to his mouth.

Wilson's breath caught as House began suckling the webbed skin between Wilson's thumb and forefinger. He moved on to lap at Wilson's palm, teeth ringed by the suction of moist lips and stubble, punctuated by feather-light caresses of his tongue. Wilson demonstrated his approval by gripping House's erection more firmly, the tips of his fingers curled to fondle his balls. He almost forgot that they were moving until they backed into the edge of the desk. Wilson staggered and ended up sitting in his inbox, House's body drawn up between his legs.

Wilson started to draw his hand out of House's jeans but House tightened his grip on Wilson's wrist and shoved his hand back in. A low hum of disapproval caressed Wilson's fingers, rumbling about House's mouth as he sucked on them. He leaned back against Wilson, distributing his weight so that he could stand comfortably, then pressed his cock into Wilson's hand and sighed. Since there was little else for it at the moment, Wilson gathered House's erection up with a handful of cotton boxers and squeezed.

"_Ah_ng…" House gasped and then silenced himself. He released both of Wilson's hands so that he could grab at Wilson's knees when he involuntarily thrust forward and his legs went rubbery.

Wilson kept one hand on House's cock but moved the other to House's hip to steady him. "Turn around."

House got his feet back under him and spun about, leaning on Wilson's legs to counteract his own balance issues, more so because Wilson still had a good firm grip on his cock and he had no intention of letting up at the moment. House planted his hands on the desk on either side of Wilson's hips, all of his weight on the left, then squinted when he noticed where Wilson's butt had ended up. He didn't bother to comment, though; he merely angled his head in search of Wilson's lips, which Wilson granted him.

They went slowly, something they usually didn't do. When they had sex it was hot and forceful, edging on violent lately. There was often a tenderness to it, but never this languid sort of ease. House didn't even try to take charge as he kissed Wilson, as Wilson prodded at his lips and snaked his tongue into House's mouth. This time, House didn't protest when Wilson withdrew his hand from his jeans.

Wilson placed a hand on the small of House's back and drew him forward until their groins touched. Even after being groped and fondled, House was barely hard. "Bad day?"

House's brows drew down between his eyes. He started to pull back but Wilson latched a hand onto the back of his neck and held him close. "Why?"

Against House's cheek, Wilson replied, "Because if this is a bad time for it, I want to know. I don't want you getting frustrated later." He paused long enough to feel between House's legs again, a pointed gesture. "I don't want to embarrass you."

Consideration like that usually set off fire works, even if saying nothing would result in much worse. House merely looked down, however, at where Wilson's hand rested, then shrugged. "It'll be fine."

That was Housian for _more foreplay will be necessary, but it all still works._ Wilson smiled against House's scratchy cheek and maneuvered their lips back together. He increased the pressure of their mouths and dipped his tongue farther back to run along House's teeth and gums, turned on by the wet sounds their mouths made as their lips locked and broke apart, repeatedly creating and losing suction. They drew uneven breaths when they could, panting more because they couldn't time their inhalations than because they were exerting themselves.

Wilson let his hand drift from House's neck to his shoulder blades, then down his spine, counting vertebrae and prodding around and between each. He knew that there were pressure points somewhere just above the lumbar group but he had never tried to find them. As if House knew what he was looking for, the motion of his mouth intensified against Wilson's, anticipating the next sensation. He slid his hands forward on the surface of the desk and leaned into Wilson, shuffling awkwardly forward on his bad leg to increase the surface area of his body that came into contact with Wilson's. He moved his left hand to the small of Wilson's back and teased around the waistband of his suit pants.

When Wilson hit upon the first lumbar vertebrae, House purred. "Mm. You passed it," he supplied, moving his fingers higher on Wilson's back to demonstrate. "Here." He pressed lightly against Wilson's lower back, not enough to hit the pressure point but close. Then he slid his hand higher, to the bottommost tip of Wilson's scapula. "There are more up here." With that, House dug his thumb in along the edge of the bone.

"Oh!" Wilson hunched a bit, though not really out of sexual pleasure. He could feel the flush flood through his skin in response, but it was like nothing more than getting a skilled massage from a trained therapist. Which was not to imply that it didn't feel good – it felt great, in fact. It simply was not erotic, at least not for Wilson.

Wilson left off fingering House's spine and felt around for the scapula point. Once he found it, he mimicked House's earlier digging, pleased by the rumble of sound that made its way to House's throat. He tried the other shoulder blade too, just for good measure, then went back to prodding his lower back. He pressed the pads of his fingers where he thought the points should be. House rewarded him with a hitched breath and a grunt. Then House broke his mouth away and leaned his forehead on Wilson's shoulder, both of his palms pressed to the desk to support his weight again.

"That's…erotic for you?" Wilson asked. He was a bit surprised.

House exhaled harshly and replied, "Sort of. It releases endorphins."

"Yeah, I know. I just didn't think – _hhhhha_ – oh."

House moved his fingers away from Wilson's vertebrae. "See?"

"Yeah. That was nice." Wilson knew that he wore his concerned look on his face, but he couldn't help it. He embraced House and pressed their bodies back together, his fingers roaming while his forearms tightened around House's body.

House took up tonguing Wilson's neck, his moist breath caressing the skin behind Wilson's ear. Wilson hit the spinal points again and House let out another sharp breath, swallowing with his throat resting against Wilson's skin. He squirmed a bit when Wilson didn't let up, his respiration speeding up, and then he lifted his face to the ceiling and let out a soft moan, arching into Wilson's stomach. Their groins rubbed together and Wilson could feel House hardening further.

"I don't think that qualifies as _sort of_," Wilson pointed out, wiggling his fingers in the spaces between vertebrae without decreasing the pressure yet.

House shifted his palms on the desk; he seemed mostly frozen, body still arched, his breathing ragged and his eyes closed, mouth parted just enough for the edges of his upper teeth to show. "Quit splitting hairs," he gasped.

Wilson grinned and suppressed the urge to gloat. He abandoned the pressure points and glided his hands up to House's face, dragging him in for a series of intense, needy kisses. Once he satisfied himself that House would stay put, he reached for the zipper on House's jeans and finished opening his pants. He pushed the jeans and boxers down far enough to expose House's ass, then contorted his body so that he could reach into his desk drawer without breaking the kiss.

House's eyes popped open and he arched an eyebrow. Only partially drawing back, he said, "Don't tell me you keep lube in here."

"You never know when the mood might strike," was Wilson's dry response to that. He leaned in again but House evaded him altogether this time.

"What mood?"

Wilson left off blindly rummaging in the drawer to stare at House. "Um. This one?" When House started to straighten and back away, Wilson sat up and grabbed his sleeves to keep him in place. "I'm not having random office flings, House. It's just something I have. I keep condoms in there too. A lot of men keep backups at work, just in case."

House had started to soften and relax again, but Wilson's last words struck him wrong. He wrenched his sleeves from Wilson's grasp and lurched backwards, hiking his pants up as he went. "_Just in case_ for you doesn't mean what it means for other people."

The anger bubbled up out of nowhere; it had probably spent years simmering beneath the thin veneer of humor with which he normally greeted House's comments on his prolific sex life. "What did I ever do to you?" Wilson demanded. "Why can't you just trust me?"

"I _know_ you," House snapped. He leaned on one of Wilson's visitor chairs. "You can't help yourself. Ever."

Wilson clumsily made his way out of his inbox and stood with his hands on his hips, prancing in irritation. The erection tenting his pants did not help him appear intimidating in that pose. "You're not even gonna give me a chance, are you. You just assume I'm going to cheat."

"Why wouldn't you? You can have anyone you want."

"Apparently not," Wilson retorted, throwing him a pointed glare.

House drew his lips together and looked away. His nostrils flared once and then his eyes found a patch of carpet in the far corner of the room. He didn't say anything else, but he didn't retreat either – not entirely.

Wilson's gaze flickered away for a second, and then he realized, "You really think you're that worthless."

House didn't reply, which was an answer in itself.

"House – " Wilson took a single step forward. "You're a world-famous doctor. Professionally speaking, people are terrified of you. One harsh word from you can ruin a career – _has_ ruined careers. You get consult requests from all over the country, your colleagues respect you, conference organizers practically wet themselves when you agree to present… How could you think you're personally worth so little?"

No part of House moved except his eyes. He met Wilson's gaze, wary and subdued, but he still didn't speak.

Since that failed to provoke a response, Wilson tried a different tack. "Why would I bother with you at all if I thought you were crap? Why would I push you to let me in?"

House looked away, a convulsive gesture. "I don't know. I don't know what you want."

"I thought that was obvious." Wilson approached him slowly but with a self-assuredness that he knew House couldn't resist in him. "You make me happy. I want to keep being happy." He resisted user any stronger language because verbal intimacy was not something that House ever reacted well to; he didn't trust words all that much. Wilson reached out instead and brushed his hand over House's cheek.

House flinched and stepped back, forsaking the support offered by the chair, but it wasn't exactly a rejection of Wilson's advance. He just didn't know what to do; he had backed himself into an awkward conversation. He had the choice to either accept Wilson's words or argue against them. Neither option would be characteristic of him.

Wilson refused to diffuse the situation; he wanted House to acknowledge that Wilson placed a value on him. He needed House to admit it out loud, so he shifted the focus of the conversation yet again. "Finish the sentence."

"What?" House's voice sharpened. "What sentence?"

"_If you're happy, I'm_…what? What are you, House?"

A brief flash of something akin to terror passed behind the unnatural blue of House's eyes.

"Finish it," Wilson insisted.

"No." House _did_ retreat at that point. He glanced at the hall door but Wilson blocked the way, so he started toward the balcony instead.

Wilson moved quickly to prevent him from leaving. He covered the lock on the balcony door with one hand and grabbed a fistful of House's hair with the other, forcing him to face Wilson. The implied threat of the action was not lost on either of them.

House refused to make eye contact. He braced himself on the wall and directed his gaze upward in the hopes of avoiding any further confrontation, his breathing shallow and close to panicked.

"House."

House swallowed, his throat bobbing in the twilight. "Can't we just forget it?"

Wilson shook his head and prodded, "If I'm happy, you're…" He shook House's head by the hair, though he regretted making him wince. "Say it."

In a barely-there voice, House gasped, "Alone." He shut his eyes, ashamed of the answer. "If you're happy, I'm alone."

Wilson kissed him – smothered him against the wall and crashed their mouths together. House resisted him at first, taken off guard by Wilson's passion, but he surrendered as soon as Wilson let go of his hair in favor of grabbing his hips with both hands. They broke off long enough for Wilson to say, "You're not alone." And then they were groping each other and trying to close the distance between their bodies even though no space existed between them as it was. They managed to knock over the coat tree on the way back to Wilson's desk, and then they ran into the bookshelves and broke off to pull in a few draughts of much-needed air. Wilson had his hands stuffed down the back of House's pants again – House had not done them back up, only pulled them back over his hips – and House's fingers were curled over Wilson's flanks, splayed in the hollows between ribs. He looked over Wilson's shoulder, into the still-open desk drawer, his lips quirked. One eyebrow jumped higher than the other.

Wilson twisted to follow his gaze and then grinned, vindicated even though his desk drawer was a mess. At some point, the lube seal had broken and leaked all over the back corner of his drawer, leaving a crusty lump of paperclips and lint. It had obviously been that way for a while – he recognized the shiny Christmas confetti from the hospital fund-raiser at the beginning of December, green trees and red candy cane shapes cemented into the dried glop.

"Aw," House cooed. "Wittle Jimmy having a dry spell?"

Wilson faced him again and smirked. "Hardly."

House turned himself slightly away and dug into his own pocket. With a flourish, he produced a tube of hospital-issue lubricant. "Ta-da!"

Wilson gave him an appraising look. "Why are you carrying that around in your pocket?"

House shrugged and mocked, "Just in case."

"Hmm." Wilson pursed his lips to stop himself from smiling and took the lube from him. "Been visiting Cameron in the ER?"

"Noooo." House did a fairly passably imitation of dead serious. "She's got Chase."

Wilson flicked open the cap on the lube. "Been visiting Chase?"

House affected a dreamy expression. "He has nice hair." Then he came back to earth. "But I'm not really a fan of his scruff. It'd be like making out with myself."

"Really." Wilson let a bit of challenge darken his voice and House smirked accordingly. "You're suddenly _not_ a narcissist?"

"No need to love myself anymore," House replied. "I have you for that."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Interesting."

"What? What's interesting?"

"You acknowledged my feelings."

The smile melted from House's face as he realized Wilson was right. "Oops."

Wilson seized the front of House's button-down and crashed their lips together. As soon as they parted, Wilson sidestepped and nudged House toward the desk. He limped forward and allowed Wilson to expose his buttocks again as he leaned against the mahogany surface, his palms splayed on an assortment of files and Wilson's desk blotter. Wilson pressed up behind him for a moment, his right arm around House's waist and the lube-slick fingers of his left hand held safely away. He rubbed his clothed groin against House's buttocks and leaned in to place a number of chaste kisses along the back of House's neck, at his hairline. "I knew it. You _do_ love me."

House exhaled, the tension dripping from his frame as he settled in place. "Don't read into things."

"Right. I forgot how transparent you are." Wilson let his mouth linger near House's ear, then stepped to the right. He subtly braced House's weight on his bad side by disguising it as an embrace, and then ran his lubed fingers up the seam of House's ass.

House sighed and bowed his head. The angle was awkward but Wilson found House's mouth and they exchanged a languorous kiss. Wilson prodded at House's bad leg with his knee until House gave him room to slip halfway between him and the desk. Their lips connected again and Wilson shoved his tongue in, tightening his arm across House's back and pulling them firmly together. He could feel the hardness of House's groin resting in the crook of his right hip but because of his position, Wilson didn't move much. He knew that he was too close to the damaged thigh; he could sense the fine tension in House's body as he unconsciously turned to shield himself from Wilson, but Wilson was in a bold mood tonight. He held House in place and continued running warm, slick fingers up and down the groove of his buttocks.

House broke the kiss as Wilson shifted and tangled their legs together. "Wilson…"

"Relax. Have I ever hurt you?"

House's mouth worked for a second. "Actually…yeah."

Wilson suppressed the flutter in his stomach that House's response induced. House had never said anything about it hurting, ever. "On purpose?"

"I don't think so…maybe…no. No." He tried to reapportion his weight to rest on the desk again, but Wilson was in his way. Reluctantly, he leaned into Wilson instead.

That wasn't exactly a glowing vote of confidence but Wilson took what he could get concerning House. "Trust me. I'm not going to do anything to your leg." His fingers continued to trace the contours of House's ass, and he slipped one down to rub over the tight ring of his opening. At House's involuntary clench, Wilson breathed, "_Trust_ me." He crooked his hip to rest on the edge of his desk and dragged House closer. Wilson ended up with his right leg nestled between House's. He wrapped his left leg around the back of House's right, trapping it against the desk, and ignored the sharply indrawn breath that this engendered.

"Wilson."

"You're okay." Wilson bent his head to suckle at House's neck and refused to let him go, to let him lean on something else. "Just relax. Let me do this."

"Okay…Wilson, I'm not okay with this." House struggled to pull back but a combination of Wilson's arm and his bum leg contrived to prevent it. "I'm serious – I want my leg back."

Wilson left off teasing and simply palmed House's butt cheek. He unhooked his leg, though, and House immediately twisted to move his bad limb away from Wilson. "Okay. I'll leave it alone."

House nodded in relief and allowed Wilson to tongue a line up his carotid, along his jaw and back to his mouth. Their tongues slid past each other and Wilson ran his hand from House's waist to the back of his neck. He tangled his fingers in House's hair and mashed their mouths together, determined not to let this pitfall interrupt the momentum. He could be patient as far as trust issues were concerned. House had let him in pretty far already; Wilson didn't need to push.

They traded lazy kisses, House much more reserved than he had been, but Wilson knew that his pique wouldn't last long. He just needed to be certain that Wilson had forgotten about the momentary fear that House had displayed, even if they both knew damn well that Wilson wasn't apt to _ever_ forget that sort of thing. It was just one of the games they played whenever something Wilson did set off warning bells in House's head – like the one time Wilson had brought a tray of ice cubes into the bedroom and House had literally dissolved into hysterics when Wilson surprised him by running one between his legs from behind. Such incidents got filed away, never to be spoken of again. Luckily, there were few such things secreted between them, but they all made Wilson wonder what sort of person might be revealed, were he finally to worm his way behind all the walls and guarded stares.

Until then, Wilson was more than happy to have House on House's terms, considering that House's terms now included closet space. He intensified his efforts to put House at ease. In short time, House was leaning over the desk again, his weight resting on his right arm while he gripped Wilson around the waist with his left, lifting Wilson ever so slightly to better mold their bodies together. Wilson trailed his fingers back to House's anus and rubbed circles over the puckered opening. He kneaded House's scalp with his other hand, holding his head so that he couldn't separate their mouths. As soon as House began to undulate his hips, softly rubbing his groin back and forth on Wilson's leg, Wilson half-stood up, his rear perched on the edge of the desk but his weight settled squarely on his feet. He let go of House's neck and encircled his waist again, crushing him with as much force as he could muster. Then he shoved a finger inside and braced them both.

House gasped and tipped to the right, but Wilson easily held him up, wrapped halfway around House's body as he was. Their lips slid apart but not away, and they both took to marking damp trails across each others' skin, dipping in to taste at necks and throats, and then clumsily meeting again in the middle. Wilson worked his finger inside up to the third knuckle, his ears attuned to every sound out of House's mouth, searching for signs of discomfort. There were only harsh exhalations and the whistle of breath drawn in through the nose. House's mouth slid away and he hunched a bit to bury his face in the crook of Wilson's neck. He continued sucking, though, and he added soft nips as Wilson drew his finger out and then thrust it back in, avoiding his prostate.

Wilson angled them so that he could reach around House without giving himself carpal tunnel, and House stepped into him. It took a moment for it to register in Wilson's brain that House had resumed the position that he had just made Wilson relinquish, his right leg flush with the side of the desk between Wilson's legs, Wilson's groin fit into the crease between his leg and his hip bone. House's arm tightened across the small of Wilson's back and Wilson felt light on his feet. House had bent him slightly backwards and by simple physics, part of Wilson's upper body weight was braced on House's arm. His arousal grew and he dared to thrust his half-hard cock against House's body, afraid to breach this unspoken accord that had sprung up between them.

House responded in kind, his knees bent a fraction and his cock digging hard into the top of Wilson's leg despite both their clothing. Wilson added a second finger and scissored them in House's body, reveling in the shudder this produced, then set up a steady rhythm that mirrored the motions of their hips. Wilson barely heard House's moan but he felt the vibration against the sensitive skin of his neck where House's lips rested, suckling without much thought. Their movements remained gentle despite both their growing arousals, on account of the precarious position they were in. Well…that, and the fact that they were in Wilson's office and any loud noises or toppled furniture would be difficult to explain.

When Wilson added a third finger, House let him go and scrambled to find a second handhold. Wilson plopped back onto the desktop and braced his right shoulder under House's armpit, pleased to know that House could barely remain upright with Wilson assaulting his senses. House canted his pelvis and shoved back against fingers in his ass, his cock squished against Wilson's body. Wilson didn't allow House any time to set his feet before he twisted his fingers and nudged House's prostate, finally. House grunted and clenched, shivering. Wilson gently massaged the little node in House's body and eventually, House abandoned the supportive desktop to cling onto Wilson, his body motionless aside from his rapid, irregular respirations and the occasional shudder that wracked his frame.

It took a while, actually, before House reached a sufficient hardness that Wilson was comfortable with going to the next part. He rubbed himself all along House's front, legging his groin as best as he could to provide as much stimulation as possible. Eventually, Wilson had to force himself not to move his hips anymore because he would have come in another minute, clothed and aching. He held them both still while he counted to ten, and then he withdrew his fingers and pushed House to straighten.

They untangled themselves and House took a faltering step back, his expression dazed. The way he looked, poised in front of Wilson with lust in his eyes and his penis poking out through his open fly… It was one of Wilson's favorite sights, when House let his guard down enough to let Wilson glimpse the want that had so obviously been hidden there for years, mingled with a sense of disbelief that he was there, with Wilson, about to fulfill it. Wilson never got tired of seeing that, and it made their unpredictable relationship worth the trouble.

Wilson pushed off the desk and worked to unbuckle his belt. House took the opportunity to latch his hands around Wilson's head and drag him forward for a kiss. He sucked Wilson's tongue into his mouth and grazed it with his teeth, teasing around the tip of it with his own tongue. Wilson moaned softly, his jaw going lax, and House surged into Wilson's mouth, forcing his tongue out of the way and trying to consume Wilson's tonsils. Though his fingers fumbled the job, Wilson managed to get his belt undone and his pants open. He shoved everything down to mid-thigh and then worked House's down enough to expose his cock the rest of the way.

Wilson tore his mouth away and ordered, "Turn around."

"Aren't you going to sit down?"

Wilson poked him in the shoulder until he turned around, and then he grabbed House around the waist from behind and pulled him back toward the chair. Wilson toed the height lever until the chair hissed and rose to its tallest setting, then he sat. House craned his neck to watch Wilson squeeze out more lube and coat his leaking cock, gingerly spreading the clear gel all over himself and then rubbing the leftover glops between House's cheeks. Then House leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk. He spread his legs as far as he was able and Wilson scooted between them. He hooked his arms under House's thighs and coaxed him down, slowly.

House flinched as the tip of Wilson's penis entered him, but they couldn't pause like this. House was already shivering from the exertion inherent in crouching with only one-and-a-half working legs, even if he was leaning mostly on his elbows. He could not have remained standing like that for much longer. They went as slowly as they could, until House's full weight rested on Wilson's lap and they were both panting at the effort.

Wilson gripped House's hips and asked, "This okay?"

House nodded. "Jus' a minute." His thighs quivered and he remained hunched over the desk, his head resting on his forearms while he breathed and adjusted.

Wilson's eyes slid closed as House's rectal muscles pulsed and contracted beyond his voluntary control, rippling about Wilson's length. "Oohhhoo…" His forehead ended up resting between House's shoulder blades and he fought not to move until House signaled he was ready. At this rate, however, movement might not even be necessary. Wilson couldn't believe he had forgotten what this felt like after a mere week – the heat, the confined space, the solid presence of House's body, the musk in the air… He dug his fingernails into House's skin and bit his lip, trying to conjure up images of surgeries and fresh road kill and his rotund aunt in a bathing suit at a family picnic, all in the hopes of staving off an embarrassing premature moment. Something like that would keep House's mockery machine going for weeks. Before he could manage to talk himself all the way down, House sat up.

They both gasped at the sensation, and then Wilson wrapped an arm over House's torso and pulled him back without warning. House arched as he fell back against Wilson, his body spasming as Wilson's cock moved and jostled his insides. The chair reclined, as most office chairs do, and Wilson panicked for a moment, thinking that they were about to flip backwards. The chair back struck the bookcase, however, and Wilson's head smacked into a row of texts. House grabbed at the chair arms and set his feet wide against the floor, and Wilson scrambled to hold onto him. Wilson's breath fled as House clenched on him, and then they both froze in place, their chests heaving, Wilson's breathing constricted on account of House's weight on top of him.

"Okay," House gasped. He relaxed some and let his head fall back onto Wilson's shoulder. "That was almost a disaster."

"This is why we should stick to the rules of no office sex."

"Hey, this was _your_ idea. It's not my fault I have no impulse control."

Wilson snorted and tried to get comfortable beneath House's weight with the corners of the chair digging into the soft flesh all over his backside. "Wait, I thought I was the enabler. Aren't _you_ the instigator?"

"Right, sorry," House returned, his voice strained. "I got confused." He flexed and shifted himself on Wilson's lap, his fingers clenching the chair arms.

Wilson took a second to bite his lip at the movement, then asked, "Are you okay like this?"

"Feels like I'm squishing you," House admitted. "But, um…I don't wanna sound like a girl…but…you're in _way_ deeper than…ever. You feel huge." He let out a nervous laugh, very unlike him.

Wilson grinned. There was no way a comment like that could fail to swell a man's ego…and by 'ego,' he didn't mean an abstract Freudian construct.

As if House could feel that too, he tilted his head to glare at Wilson and snapped, "Don't let it go to your metaphorical head. You haven't actually done anything with it yet."

"Buzz kill." Wilson slid lower in the chair, wincing at the canvas burn that he would no doubt end up getting on his butt. He cinched his arms around House's body. "Just lay back. Try and go limp."

House entrusted himself to Wilson, more or less, but he maintained his grips on the chair arms. Wilson canted his pelvis to see what sort of leverage he had, then lifted his left foot and braced it against his desk. The chair tilted back a bit more and House's body slid an inch higher on Wilson's, accompanied by a helpless whimper that left Wilson dizzy for more. He ran a hand up under House's shirt to caress his chest and carefully lifted his right foot as well. House's legs fell farther apart at that and Wilson made sure that the chair was securely wedged against the bookshelf before he gave an experimental thrust.

"Ohhh-mm." House licked his lips and went mostly boneless on top of Wilson's body, his head thrown back and his eyes closed.

"Quiet," Wilson reminded him. And then he had an unsettling thought. "Did we lock the door?"

House opened his eyes and blinked. "Well, I'm not going to check. Can't you tell from here?"

Wilson looked over and shook his head. "I can't remember if the latch is supposed to be vertical or horizontal. I usually don't lock it while I'm in here."

"Who the fuck cares? No one's gonna come looking for you at this hour – it's almost seven."

"Right." Wilson thought he had locked it. He had a vague memory of doing something like that. "Just be quiet."

"Enough already with the quiet," House snapped. "It's not exactly a challenge right now; I could stay quiet for hours at this rate."

Wilson glared at him, took a breath, and then thrust. Hard. Just to shut him up.

House convulsed and Wilson actually saw him bite his tongue at that angle, their faces right beside each other. "Ngh! Okay, that's more like it. You could be a little nicer about it, though."

"Everyone's a critic." Wilson curled again and thrust against gravity, his movements shallow even though, as House had said, he was in as far as he could go. He tried circling his hips instead while he ran his fingers through House's sparse chest hair, crooking his knuckle to rake his nails over House's nipples. House bucked at that and swore, and Wilson went back to making rapid little thrusts.

Wilson kept up the pace, thankful that the near topple and their conversation had broken the momentum enough that he was no longer in imminent danger of exploding. House kept himself braced on the chair arms, perhaps to spare Wilson the full brunt of his weight, so Wilson explored the planes of his body, one hand ghosting over House's cock while the other fluttered about House's neck, tracing his throat and collarbones through his shirts. House sighed and arched further back with a choked grunt. He managed to plant his own feet well enough to roll his hips into Wilson's thrusts, his body slanting to the right each time he lifted.

Wilson took a fistful of House's erection and squeezed, his thumb flicking at the head. House's breath caught and he slammed himself down on Wilson's cock, cutting off a moan in the process. Wilson snickered and pinched back the foreskin, wishing he still had one of his own for House to play with. The sounds that man made whenever Wilson teased it…he wondered how it must feel. Wilson rubbed his thumb into the slit and then worked his fingers at the sweet spot just under the head until he saw a milky bead of fluid form at the tip. House trembled and clamped his mouth shut, his nostrils flaring with every exhale. Wilson collected the bead and spread it around with his thumb, then rolled the foreskin back into place.

"Oh…god…Wilson…" House's voice was husky, brimming with desire. He stilled his own body and simply allowed Wilson to do whatever he wanted for the time being.

Wilson had more than enough leftover lube on his hand to start stroking and he paused in his thrusts, balls-deep in House's ass, just to enjoy tormenting him for a while. He swished his wrist on each upstroke, bunching the foreskin near House's tip, then rolling it down again as his hand descended. House panted and tried not to make any noise, but Wilson's treatment left him uttering soft cries of pleasure each time he breathed out.

Wilson's hips twitched in sympathy each time House's pelvis jerked into a stroke. He shushed House after a particularly loud moan assaulted the room, and ran his fingertips over the column of House's throat. "Quiet," he whispered, stirring House's hair with his words. "Stay quiet…"

House gasped and his eyes flew open, his body twitching in response to some stimuli that Wilson couldn't separate from the myriad ones that he was inflicting on House at the moment. He tightened his grip on House's cock, and by reflex, also tightened his fingers at House's throat.

"_Nngh!_" House arched and rocked his ass back onto Wilson's cock hard enough to hurt.

In shock, Wilson let go of him and grasped his hip to stop him from doing it again, his eyes tearing. "_Fuck!_"

"Sorry," House gasped, his chest heaving and his eyes shut tight. "Didn't mean to."

Wilson recovered quickly and seized House's cock again, though this time, he wrapped his fingers around the base and pinched. He didn't know why, exactly; it just seemed fitting payback for squishing his balls against the chair. He thrust up at the same time and reestablished the rhythm they had been going at earlier.

"Fuckfuck – _Amph!_" House writhed and raised his left heel to the chair seat next to Wilson's leg.

Wilson stopped again and hissed, "Shut up!" He cast a fearful glance at the door, and then at the wall that separated them from the diagnostics lounge. He knew from long residence in this office that the wall was paper thin; he had often listened to House's tirades during differentials, laughing to himself or shaking his head or thinking up hiding places to avoid the storm of temper that House could become on a bad day. Wilson pressed the pad of his thumb against House's throat in warning. "Somebody's gonna hear you."

House hiccupped and shuddered, but he still couldn't stop himself from muttering something halfway between a string of insults and a stifled yelp as Wilson shoved into him again. House used his left leg to rise up as Wilson pulled out, and they moved to compliment each other after that in spite of House's lopsided rocking. Wilson gave up on trying to shush House and simply clapped his hand over House's mouth. House seemed to interpret that as free reign to make as much noise as he wanted, since he was now protected by Wilson's hand. Except that Wilson's hand could only block so much, and House had one hell of a pair of lungs on him.

No matter the situation, the best way to shut House up was to occupy his mouth – lollipops, potato chips, Wilson's tongue… Wilson splayed his fingers out along House's jaw and forced his head to turn so that Wilson could claim his lips. He covered House's mouth with his own and swallowed the sharp grunts and whimpers that he made as Wilson continued pumping into him from below. House allowed Wilson's tongue to delve in and taste the backs of his teeth. Wilson thought about being a smart ass and actually counting the fillings he encountered, but he was too distracted to stick with the task.

They were both close. Wilson felt as if his nerves were running a fresh current through his body, waking senses that had lain dormant until now. Every contraction of muscle around his cock left him breathless; he could feel House's body fighting to hold him inside, to suck him in deeper. Till now, Wilson had only been grazing House's prostate; he struggled to scoot lower in the chair to change the angle of his thrusts. As soon as he did, House convulsed in pleasure. His elbows slid off the chair arms and the breath fled Wilson's lungs as he found himself pinned beneath House's full weight. But he kept heaving his pelvis up into the welcoming warmth of the body above him.

House bent himself backwards and turned his head to the ceiling, away from Wilson's lips. He stopped rolling his hips but he kept them angled to take advantage of Wilson's continued exertions. Wilson's position was a lot more demanding now that House wasn't helping, but there was no way he could have stopped, not when he could see House's blissed face in profile beside him. Wilson put his hand back over House's mouth just in case, both amused and further aroused when House worked his tongue against Wilson's palm.

Wilson flexed his back but couldn't arch properly due to House's weight. It was worth the discomfort, though, to be able to gaze down the length of House's body, from the tip of his shoulder to House's glistening cock held fast between Wilson's fingers and bobbing slightly as Wilson pounded into him. It looked funny, Wilson's own legs protruding from between House's, as if they were some strange, mashed-up centaur with two torsos. Siamese centaurs?

A few seconds after that unfortunate thought interrupted the tempo, House let out a strangled cry, muffled in Wilson's hand; his spine curved away from Wilson's belly, leaving Wilson free to breath again. House grabbed his cock, apparently unfazed by the presence of Wilson's fingers cinched around his base, and started pumping, his hips jagging forward into each stroke. In fact, Wilson had forgotten that he was squeezing there as payback, to deny House an orgasm for as long as he could.

A wicked grin stole over Wilson's features. He let go of House's cock long enough to pry House's hand away and drag it up to his chest. Then Wilson paused yet again in his thrusts to grope for House's left hand as well. House made a speculative sound as Wilson crossed his wrists and held them in place long enough to roll both of House's shirts over them, hooking the hems over his elbows too to trap his forearms against his chest. House struggled half-heartedly as Wilson reached across his body with his right arm to both hold House's arms down more firmly and to clamp his mouth shut again. Then Wilson resumed thrusting.

House groaned in pleasure, content to leave his arms tangled up in cotton. If he had truly been uncomfortable, he could have freed himself; the shirts were hardly a barrier to movement, but the gesture counted for something. Wilson took a moment to fondle House's balls, drinking in the whimpers that sounded in his ear and the way that House flexed his torso. He thumbed House's tip, teasing as he watched the foreskin draw back, and then Wilson grasped the base of House's penis and squeezed to stop the entire process.

House's entire body tensed, his cry caught in his throat. "_Mmph._" A hot breath spread across Wilson's palm and escaped around the cracks between his fingers. House shuddered, his hips moving of their own accord, seeking friction against Wilson's immobile hand, and then his face screwed up in something resembling anguish. He tried to speak around the hand covering his mouth, a plea by the sound of it.

Wilson ignored him and continued thrusting, throwing his head back to rest on the row of books behind him. House tensed up again, clenching around Wilson in the process, and then he cried out in frustration. He stretched out along Wilson's body, elongating his torso, and turned his head in against Wilson. Wilson's hand slipped away and House's tongue curled in around the shell of Wilson's ear. It was pleasant up until House bit him.

"Ow!" Wilson jerked his head away, which he shouldn't have done because House hadn't let go of his earlobe yet.

Around the flesh in his teeth, House said, "Quit fucking around."

It wasn't threatening in the least. House's voice was too high, too thready. His eyes were set in desperation, black pupils rimmed by a hint of blue, begging Wilson, paradoxically, not to make him beg. Once House let Wilson's earlobe slip from between his teeth, Wilson covered House's mouth again and let go of his cock altogether just to be contrary. He slid his fingers along the topmost part of House's inner thigh instead, grazing his balls, and increased the tempo of his thrusts. House worked his arms free but merely braced himself on the chair arms again, lifting off just enough to give Wilson room to properly pound him. He rolled his hips in tandem with Wilson, his throat constricting each time he swallowed or made a sound against Wilson's palm.

Wilson soon found himself in much the same predicament as House, biting back moans and turning them into sharp sobs to be choked over. He thought he might manage to last another minute or two, if he were lucky, until House suddenly threw himself back and went rigid. Wilson turned his head to see what the hell had happened, and then gasped as the muscles of House's rectum rippled and pulsed all about Wilson's length. His hand slipped from House's mouth and he latched onto House's neck instead to hold his head back, as if that would help matters. Wilson noted House's tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth as he gulped in several loud breaths in an effort to remain silent, and then Wilson's orgasm snuck up on him.

Wilson heaved his hips up and then froze for a moment, suspended at the point of ecstasy, not breathing while a backdraft seared his body and tugged streams of bliss from the center of his groin and out through his cock. It felt as though heat blossomed and spread through his entire frame, a flush that consumed him until his toes curled inside his shoes. Then the paralysis broke. Wilson's hands clenched on House's frame and he threw himself up into House again and again, his teeth gritted in a vain effort to hold back a growl. Tight rings of muscle and ribbed flesh slid along the length of his cock until he was spent, empty and aching with the force of his release. He slumped in the chair, gasping while his head spun and his circulatory system throbbed in his ears, leaving him hazy in the afterglow. House settled heavily on top of him, his arms dangling over the sides of the chair.

With half a mind to House's completion, Wilson peeled his hand from House's thigh and groped to find his cock. He lifted his head when his hand alit on sticky softness to confirm that yes, House had come just from being penetrated; neither of them had touched his penis at the end. "How…?"

House simply basked and mumbled something about how it didn't matter.

Wilson humphed and let House's weight compress him until he felt like he was one with the chair. "You're never gonna tell me what it is, are you," Wilson slurred, drunk on the after-buzz of endorphins and rambunctious sex. "Whatever keeps getting you off like that – you're not gonna fess up."

"Oh, just shut up, Wilson."

"Suck it."

"Later. You're too old to get it up again so soon."

Wilson snorted and then wriggled his hips until he slipped out of House. This part always disgusted him a bit – the dribbly part that followed. "Dammit. Shoulda used a condom."

"Relax. Can't be the first time this carpet's been marked with spooge."

Wilson refrained from taking that bait because he didn't want a repeat of their earlier argument over Wilson's past proclivities. He responded with a disinterested grunt and nothing more. And then Wilson's worst nightmare came true. Or one of them, anyway – he had several.

A knock sounded on the door.

Wilson and House both tensed and turned to stare. At a repeat knock, Wilson called out, "Who is it?"

"It's Kutner. Are you okay in there? We heard somebody yell."

Wilson glared at House and House shrugged as if to demand to know how this could possibly be his fault. In a slight panic, Wilson called back, "We're fine. It's…House…tripped. He's not in a good mood, trust me. You should go." He pinched House's stomach hard enough to make him flinch and swear on cue.

"Oh. Do you need anything?"

"No, we're fine," Wilson insisted. He shoved House into a sitting position as he spoke, accidentally straining his words. "You can go – I'll handle it."

"Okay. Goodnight, Doctor Wilson. 'Night, Doctor House."

Footsteps carried the nosey fellow away and Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. From now on, no office sex under any circumstances. Ever."

House craned his neck to look over his shoulder at Wilson. "Again: I didn't start it. You broke protocol all on your own, chief."

"Mmm." Wilson glared at him, trying to think up some manner of blaming this on House. "This never would have happened if you hadn't gotten sappy on me."

"Sappy?" House barked, then laughed despite himself. "Wow – you must _really_ be starved for attention if you think _that_ was sappy."

"It's your fault," Wilson insisted. "Don't fight it."

"How do you figure?" House leaned forward and levered himself off Wilson's lap.

Wilson waited until House limped away toward the couch, then rose and grabbed a few tissues to half-heartedly wipe himself off before putting his clothes to rights. They would both need showers once they got home. He tossed a few clean tissues in House's direction; they landed on the coffee table and House scooped them up before he sank wearily down on the couch. "A jury would side with me."

House scoffed. "Oh, would they?"

"What can I say?" Wilson sauntered around and perched on the edge of his desk, his arms and legs crossed. "I'm cute."

"So was the killer bunny in Monty Python."

Wilson's eyebrows lowered of their own accord. "So…you're saying I'm an evil little monster disguised as an oncologist, just waiting for someone to get close enough for me to tear their throat out." He glanced aside and pretended to ponder this. "What does that say about you, then? You associate with me."

"I'm dumb," House returned, deadpan. "And you cook." He paused and his eyes drifted skyward. "That reminds me…I'm starving. You're buying me dinner on the way home. It's the price of renting my closet space."

Wilson shot House a playful look. "Funny. All this time, I've been wondering about the real reason I kept buying you food."

House grinned. "My personal space isn't cheap."

They finished straightening themselves and then Wilson switched off the desk lamp and gathered his things. They stopped off at House's office for his backpack, which House had already filled and placed on the conference room table in case things had gone awry with Wilson and he had needed to make a quick getaway. Of course, House didn't actually say that; he cracked a joke of some sort that frankly went in one of Wilson's ears and out the other. But Wilson knew.

At the elevator, they paused, waiting for the carriage to arrive. Wilson tilted his head back as something occurred to him. "Don't you have a birthday coming up?"

House shot him an ungrateful look. "No."

"Fifty. Isn't it?"

House shoved his tongue against the inside of his cheek and glared.

"Thought so." Wilson smirked and boarded the elevator.

--TBC


	9. Chapter 9

They stopped for wings Thursday evening and then went their separate ways, but only because they'd driven their own cars that morning and Wilson was on call all night. If he stayed at 221B and his pager interrupted House's sleep, he'd end up with a gloomy shadow whispering snide remarks in his ear for as long as it took to convince House to go take a nap. It worked out well this way; Wilson would have more than enough time to shop for a birthday gift without trying to dodge House at every turn.

The problem with this nefarious plan of his didn't become obvious until he had spent way too much time parallel parking, obsessed over maneuvering himself to within exactly three inches of the curb, in strict accordance with city regulations. He was struck by the slightly paranoid notion that he might get a parking ticket if he wasn't careful, and that the parking ticket would have an address on it to detail his offense. And then, somehow, everyone in the whole of creation would know that James Evan Wilson, renowned oncologist and infamous womanizer, had visited a porn shop.

Wilson sat in his cold car and stared across the street at the discreet storefront. He was in an upscale neighborhood, as far as these sorts of shops went. The place was called "Midnight Accessories" and the windows displayed a tasteful assortment of sleepwear covering the naughty parts of a half dozen androgynous mannequins. On the outside, it appeared no worse than "Victoria's Secret."

He had never been to one of these places before. If he wanted sexual release, he generally obtained it the old fashioned way; that approach had never failed him, though three marriages and numerous other relationships had. He felt like a blushing teen ogling his first strip joint. Oh god. What if his mother found out that her precious child had gone to a sex shop?

"House had better thank me for this," Wilson muttered. He yanked the keys from the ignition and climbed out of his car, scanning the street all around for signs of…what? Mobs of outraged, moral people waiting to lynch him with his own imported tie? He needed to get a grip.

His plan was to sneak inside and lurk around in the back, peeking over shelves to catch glimpses of the merchandise from a safe position of obscurity. Then after he mapped out the shortest route between himself, all of his intended purchases, and the checkout counter, he could make a marathon dash for the merchandise and pay before someone got a good enough glimpse of his face to identify him. And no, lurking in the back aisles of a porn shop was _not_ creepy, thank you. It just meant he was shy.

The door jangled as he stepped inside.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Uh – I, uh…um." Wilson's eyes darted about in search of a hiding place. He could feel himself turning scarlet and seriously considered running back out. "I'm…"

"First timer?" The young woman emerged from behind the counter and clasped her hands in front of herself. She looked normal enough: loose jeans over long legs, tight shirt over…

Wilson shook himself. Not good. "Yeah. I guess." His eyes wandered; he willed them not to widen in shock. Holy…how many different ways were there to make a dildo? It was enough to give him a complex; his own penis looked boring in comparison. "I'm not sure what I'm looking for." His signature charm oozed out of his pores and he made a concerted effort to hold it back. He almost wished House were here to save him from himself; he was too nervous to really stop the automatic smiles and hand gestures. Flirting with the hostess of a porn shop…not the brightest idea.

"Well, what's the occasion?" The shop girl gestured to the store around her and Wilson refrained from following her hands. His legs jittered; he wondered if she could see it. "Are you looking for yourself or is this a couples thing?"

"Couple," Wilson barked too quickly. The girl quirked an eyebrow at him but was apparently accustomed to dealing with high-strung yuppie-types on their first foray. "It's…for a birthday. Present. A birthday present." Oh god…he was a moron.

The girl shot him a coy smile. "Lucky woman. Our couples section has – "

"Not…exactly." Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets and looked pretty much everywhere at once. "He's got…strange…tastes."

"Oh!" Shop Girl did a double take and then smiled to cover it up. If anything, she seemed even more flirtatious now. "Well that's another story." She beckoned him forward and he uncomfortably followed at what he deemed to be a safe distance. House had _really_ better thank him for this. "Our men's section is one of the largest and most diverse in the city." She sauntered – _god_, look at the hips – through the store with Wilson on her heels like a hapless puppy. "What exactly is he into? I assume penetrative sex isn't a new thing for you two?" She glanced back and confirmed this from Wilson's furious blush. "Well, we have the usual. Beads, vibrating beads, rings…pretty much anything you can think of. And we carry all sorts of lubricants, some of them edible, some mixed with enhancement creams." She paused in the aisle and swished to smile over her shoulder at him. Her very pose dripped seduction. How did that happen? "You're not the talkative sort."

"I'm…shell shocked," Wilson offered. His voice cracked to reinforce that assertion and he only met her eyes for a second.

"I get that a lot." She nodded, finally slipping into a more business-oriented role. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Just be frank. What does he like?"

Wilson worked a hand behind his neck and pulled a few times, his eyes drifting to the shelves beside him. "Do you have…um…bondage…stuff?"

Shop Girl's wicked smile was not a good thing; Wilson was starting to recall just how much he enjoyed a woman's body. "Kinky." She gave him an appreciative wink and Wilson hurried to look away. "What sort?"

"What sort of what?" Wilson wasn't sure if it were possible for him to sound more stupid.

"Of bondage." The girl played off his lack of mental acuity and smiled again, indulgent. "You know – are we talking punishment fantasies, leather, dungeon master stuff? Or something more tame like fuzzy handcuffs and orgasm denial?"

Wilson might have stopped breathing, his eyes wide as saucers at her blatant bluntness. His hand froze on the back of his neck.

Shop Girl sashayed closer. "Don't look so scandalized. They're just words."

Wilson blinked and shook himself, then stepped back to regain a bit of personal space. He could smell her perfume, or something. Maybe she used one of those pheromone sprays; it would certainly explain why he'd been attacked by the stoopids the moment he'd entered the shop. "He…I…tie him up…I guess. He said he likes being restrained."

"Ah. Sub-dom play." The girl nodded as if this made perfect sense. "You're new to this?"

"I think we both are," Wilson confessed. "We sort of stumbled into it."

She nodded at that too. "Is this a force-fantasy, or just general restriction of movement and participation?"

"You make this sound like a fine art." Wilson cringed as soon as he said that, but he was so desperately uncomfortable. He recovered and answered, "A little of both, I think. I'm not really sure; he clams up whenever I try to talk about it."

"Okay. How about verbal aspects? Do you order him around?"

Wilson shook his head.

"Is there a debasement angle? Humiliating poses or acts?"

"What? No!" Wilson looked around just to be certain they couldn't be overheard. He wished he had a collection of paint swatches so that he could measure his exact level of embarrassment against a color palette of shades of red. "Do people actually do that?"

The girl nodded, her eyebrows arched. "You'd be surprised what some people ask for. I don't judge another person's choice of pastime. Some folks just need those sorts of things in their lives." She straightened and got back to business. "So we're talking just plain old restraint, something to give you a chance to tease him, to draw it out?" A cheeky grin glided over Shop Girl's face. "Make him beg?"

Wilson smiled in spite of himself. "Yeah. That sounds about right." Shoot. Now he was aroused, and he couldn't tell if it was caused by the thought of House pleading to be allowed to come, or the way this girl stared at him all mysterious-like with her dimples showing. He cleared his throat and shifted his feet to distract himself.

Shop Girl finally turned to regard the shelves and Wilson breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she broke eye contact. Damn, he was going to be in trouble if he didn't watch it. "I'd recommend either silk rope or cuffs. They're both designed not to chafe." She plucked two boxes off the shelf and held them up for Wilson to examine. "Preference?"

Wilson studied each box in turn, thinking back on the few times he and House had played this sort of game, then pointed to the rope. He didn't actually touch the box, though – like it had cooties or something.

"Good." Shop Girl returned the cuffs to their proper place and moved on down the aisle with the rope tucked under one arm. "How about sensory deprivation? Blindfold? Gag?"

"Um…both, I guess." Wilson could sort it out later; better to have it and not use it than wish for it later. And no way in hell was he going to come back here if he forgot something.

Shop Girl pointed to several different styles of blindfolds dangling from hooks between the shelving and he chose a wide black cotton one that tied in back. She grabbed it and then waited for him to also select a gag.

That one proved harder for him; he couldn't really imagine using anything other than the neckties he had used before, on a whim. "Erm…maybe not, then."

"Cool." Shop Girl kept walking and Wilson padded along in her wake, wishing he could sink into the floor as the paraphernalia got progressively more elaborate. "How about toys, then? Accessories?" She finally stopped, though Wilson really would have preferred to just keep going until he hit a fire door and escaped. "These are all made especially for male anal play." She indicated an intimidating collection of dildos, vibrators and anal beads. "And over here, anything to suit your more classic needs." On her other side stood a spinning display of masturbatory sleeves and cock rings.

"Oh…kay." Wilson gaped for a second and then reached toward a set of anal beads. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he snatched his hand back and inspected it, maybe to see if it had been burned. "Why don't you…pick some stuff…and then…" He hesitated, then finished, "…and then I won't have to."

Shop Girl burst into laughter at that and Wilson jumped. "You are simply adorable. If only you weren't gay."

Wilson started to say that he _wasn't_ gay, but clamped his mouth shut at the last moment. Technically…yeah. He was in a gay relationship, having _fabulous _gay sex. But he didn't think of himself as _gay_, per se. Just…in love with his best friend. Or something. "Thanks. I think."

The girl selected a rather extensive, in Wilson's opinion, assortment of toys and props for him, and carried them all to the front register since Wilson was too out of his element to think about offering to help. She added a few lubricants and creams to the pile from her stock under the counter, then rang it all up. He didn't even look at the final tally when Shop Girl asked him if he was sure he wanted everything; he just pulled out his wallet and handed over the first piece of plastic that his fingers encountered.

Shop Girl smiled up at him in sympathy. "Honey, you're cute but I'm not really worried that you're under-aged."

Wilson tried to laugh as he took back his driver's license but ended up choking over his own spit and coughing for a good fifteen seconds. He fumbled to pull out his debit card instead and the girl completed the transaction. She even gift-wrapped the whole purchase in a unmarked black box slightly larger than an old-style hat box.

A plain white ribbon completed the package and she slid Wilson's purchase to him across the countertop. "You enjoy yourself. And come on back some time. You're a sight for sore eyes in a place like this."

Wilson gave a wan smile in return, slightly sick to his stomach from a combination of nerves and the realization that he found the girl attractive enough to picture naked in bed with him. He croaked his thanks and dashed out of the store with his gift box to revel in the fresh, crisp air.

Once he slid behind the wheel of his Volvo, he felt better. His anonymity was once again intact, no torch-bearing right-wingers had tried to drag him off and charge him with defilement of the human race. And he had a present the likes of which he was pretty sure no one had ever before given to Greg House. This could be fun. In fact, there was no way that Wilson could possibly see this going wrong.

* * *

"I swear, I didn't tell them!" Wilson jogged down the corridor in House's wake, demanding that the heavens explain to him how a man with a bum leg could move so damn fast. "Look, so they made a cake. What's the big deal? Eat it, get fat, pretend to smile a little, and then go home and get drunk. I know you can pretend, House. I've seen you do it to scam people."

House came to a halt in front of the elevator buttons, nearly smashing into the wall to stop his momentum. His backpack slid off his shoulder and he scrambled not to let it drop. After he jabbed the down button, he whirled on Wilson and snapped, "They had kazoos!"

Wilson's face screwed up in a vain effort not to burst out laughing at the word _kazoo_. "Well…yeah, that was a bit…" He rolled a hand in the air as if to draw words from it. "Kutner really has a death wish."

"So do you," House snapped. Then he muttered, "Come on!" at the elevator.

"Me? What did I do?" Wilson started and then made an exasperated face with his fingers twittering in the air between them. "I didn't tell them!"

"You didn't tell _me_ that they were scheming." The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. House nearly mowed down an elderly couple as he ploughed inside. Wilson held the doors with an apologetic smile so that they could disembark. Then he boarded as well.

Full blown dry wit invaded and occupied Wilson's reply. "So sorry about that. Next time you have an irrelevant anniversary of some major even in your life, I'll remember to stalk your team so that I can warn you if they're going to try something nice." He shot House a menaced look at the end of that pronouncement, as if niceness were a heinous crime.

House narrowed his eyes. "Don't patronize me." He glared at the door and bounced a bit, as much as he was able with one good leg. "And I ate the cake. It had sprinkles."

A goofy grin slid unnoticed onto Wilson's face. He shot House a sidelong look; that seemingly irrelevant addendum was just so him. "Can't pass up sprinkles."

"What would the world come to?"

They made their way to Wilson's Volvo but Wilson didn't get in right away. He unlocked House's door and then went around to the trunk to make sure that the big black box of unmentionables was still there with its pretty white ribbon. All day, he had suffered from this irrational fear that some random thug would break into his car, find it, and for some reason reveal its contents to the whole hospital staff. That was all he needed – to have a box of…stuff…be found in his possession.

Wilson shut the trunk and picked his way through the slush back to the driver's side door. He climbed in and shut the door, then paused. "House?"

"Oh, not again." House shifted around to make himself more comfortable, then faced Wilson with a clearly fake smile plastered all over his face. "Yes, dear?"

Wilson ignored the sarcasm and asked, "Are we gay?"

House blinked at him like he was a dumbass. "Your identity crisis, freak-out moment is about six months overdue."

"So, that's a yes?" Wilson turned to stare out the windshield.

"Technically, we're both bi," House corrected, but he didn't sound like his typical know-it-all self. Wilson glanced over to find him fiddling with his cane. "That bother you?"

"Not really. I was just…surprised, I guess."

House gave him a sidelong look. "Why, all of a sudden?"

Wilson shrugged. "Somebody called me gay the other day. It just…sounded weird." He looked away and peered at the ceiling. "And then there's Cuddy."

House gave an exasperated sigh and glared out his window. "I don't like Cuddy. She's hot and she's got great breasts, but I don't have a thing for her. For the last time. Can we drop it now?"

"What? No – House." Wilson turned sideways and leaned forward until House looked at him. "Cuddy…saw the marks." He pointed to House's wrist and House automatically tugged at his cuffs even though the bruises were long gone. "So I sort of told her what was going on…and she…wasn't exactly accepting of it."

House studied him for a second, his expression inscrutable. "And _that_ bothers you."

"Well…" Wilson's shoulders moved in a non-specific manner. "Are you telling me it _doesn't _bother you? Not even a little bit?"

House pursed his lips and faced forward again. "I'll talk to her."

"No." Wilson raised a hand in a gesture of denial. "I don't want you throwing a tantrum in her office – that's not going to help matters."

"Then what do you want me to do, Wilson?"

"I… Cuddy's a friend, right?"

House's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I guess."

Wilson picked his way carefully over his next words because he knew that House would explode after some fashion. But he couldn't get out of completing the thought process; House would nag him in his own special way until Wilson caved. "If she's…like that, and she _knows_ us, _likes _us even, then what are other people going to think? You know…when they find out about us."

Contrary to expectations, House didn't yell. Or snark or get out of the car or get angry in any way over the stock that Wilson put in the opinions of non-involved third parties. He got sad, and then he faced forward and stared blankly into the windshield.

"House?"

"I want to go home."

Wilson didn't know how to deal with that; there was nothing for him to bounce off of and react to. But the way House said it, gravelly and flat, left a lead ball in Wilson's stomach. "I didn't mean to…" What? Start a fight? Hurt House's feelings? Say anything about it at all?

"Start the car," House ordered without inflection, without any force even. "It's cold."

Wilson swallowed hard and looked away. He'd never managed to do that before – hurt House's feelings. At least, not like that, not in a way that made him shut down and show the sadness instead of snark back. Wilson glanced at him again, impassive and unmoving in the passenger seat, but he couldn't keep looking. "House, I – "

"Please just drive."

_Please_. House said please. Wilson took a deep, shaky breath and turned the key in the ignition. "I'm just asking. I'm not saying it matters; I just – "

"You wouldn't bring it up if it didn't matter." Soft, low, subdued.

Wilson's eyes found House's profile again as he backed out of the parking space and switched gears. House was simply staring out the window, his features still. "It concerns me. It doesn't affect _this_." Wilson pointed at the both of them with one hand, thumb and pinky stuck out like a child's imaginary telephone.

House shut his eyes momentarily and bowed his head. He frowned at the head of his cane, which rested between his legs. Then he repeated, "Please just drive, Wilson."

A tightness invaded Wilson's chest but he put the car in drive without another word and pulled out into traffic. They didn't fight like this. House got sullen and sarcastic, and Wilson assaulted him with reason and emotion disguised as psychology. Then they brooded, angry, in separate rooms for a few days, reached a silent understanding that neither would acknowledge out loud, and had fabulous make-up sex. House didn't just retreat into some quiet hurt, and it didn't leave Wilson on the verge of unmanly, if silent tears, like his heart was going to crawl up his esophagus and splatter against the dashboard.

Halfway to House's apartment, Wilson could no longer pretend that his vision wasn't blurry, and he pulled into a parking lot beside a video store. Neither of them spoke as Wilson drove to a dark, unlit corner, killed the engine, and then peered up at the ceiling. A corner of the fabric behind his visor had frayed, exposing the foam beneath. He studied it; surely it held the secret to the meaning of the universe.

House's rough voice broke the silence. "It's okay if it bothers you. I don't expect you to stop wanting to please people. I'm sure as hell not gonna stop pissing them off."

Wilson tipped his head back down and watched House bounce the tip of his cane off his sneaker from the corner of his eye. Wilson blinked and then shook his head. He forced his voice to come out level, even if it sounded a bit weak. "That's not what this is about."

"Then what?" House still wouldn't look at him, and his voice was nearly too soft to hear.

On impulse, Wilson reached out to touch House's cheek, but House flinched. Wilson made a fist instead and let it fall to the consol between them, swallowing hard. "All that crap with her playing practical jokes on you – the utilities and the trip wire… I know she said it was just to get back at you for ruining her leave of absence, but that was right after I told her about us. And she was…pissed off about it. I can't help thinking – "

"Stop being an idiot," House snapped. Finally, the anger showed. "Cuddy's just hormonal, and she finally decided to get back at me for…" He gazed at the ceiling to do the mental math. "…what, twenty five years of aggravation and inappropriate comments about her cleavage. It had nothing to do with you. You think that everything you do has a direct on impact on the rest of the world – well, it doesn't. Some things actually have _nothing_ to do with you." Under his breath, he muttered, "God, you're such a martyr."

Wilson ignored the last comment because it was just a Housian attempt to deflect and blow the entire discussion out of proportion so that it ended sooner. "Maybe so, but I was trying to convince her to go out with you last year, and you can't deny that it contributed – "

"So, I'm supposed to be alone and miserable just to save your conscience every time somebody decides that they don't approve of you fucking a guy?"

"No! House, I don't want to break up with you. I'm just concerned – "

"Save it," House barked. "You accuse me of avoiding the real issue all the time. _You're_ avoiding the fact that you're uncomfortable with people thinking you're gay. It has nothing to do with Cuddy or pranks, or me for that matter. It's about you."

"House – "

"Just admit it, Wilson."

"No, it's not – "

"You're allowed to be selfish. Just admit it."

"I'm not admitting it. I'm not – "

"Stop lying! I'm more insulted by you lying to me than by you being ashamed of me."

"I am _not_ ashamed of you!"

House deflated right before Wilson's eyes. "Yes you are. You always were. You wouldn't keep trying to fix me otherwise."

"No." Wilson's denial was flimsy and strained, but he couldn't think of anything else to say right then. So he just said it again. "No, House."

House drew in a breath through his nose, started to say something, then sucked on his bottom lip and reached for the door handle.

Wilson's hand shot out to stop him before he could think about it. Normally, House would shrug him off with a harsh, cutting remark, but this time, he merely stopped moving. He wasn't frozen, exactly, just softly still. Wilson gripped House's arm, right below his elbow, and tugged lightly to get his attention. Once House turned toward him, his eyes downcast, Wilson said, "I didn't mean to hurt you by bringing it up, House. It was just a question. It was just something I needed to talk about; not an attack on you, or on us." He paused, then tried to smile. It probably looked more like a grimace. "And this really isn't how I planned to celebrate your birthday."

House lifted his head a bit, but his eyes strayed out the front window. "You had plans for my birthday?"

"Unfortunately, Kutner beat me to the sprinkles." Since that earned a guffaw from House and lessening of the tension in the arm that Wilson gripped, Wilson smiled. "But I think I can make it up to you."

"I dunno," House replied, his tone cautious but light. "Sprinkles and kazoos…that's pretty hard to upstage."

Wilson shrugged, practically giddy with relief. House was listening to him, he was being receptive – that was _huge_. "It's only fair to let me try."

"Mm." House's smile slid away. "You're really not lying?"

"You tell me. You keep saying I'm an open book."

"You're not," House stated. "I just like making you think you are because you get all flustered and then blab the truth."

Wilson nodded and filed that away for later use, smiling on the inside to have House admit to playing him half the time. "Do you really think I'd choose my reputation over you?"

House stopped in the middle of a shrug, and his shoulders fell.

"Do you really think you mean so little?"

"No one…seems to think otherwise," House admitted.

Wilson watched him for a second. He knew that House had some weird sort of inferiority complex, but he had never admitted as much. "I do. I chose you over my job once. I chose you over Bonnie. I chose you over other friends, over career changes, over…" He shrugged because he had run out of examples that didn't sound cheesy, and he didn't want to point out that he had chosen to forgive House for being involved in Amber's death, rather than lose him. And if not for that, they wouldn't be here now. Ironic. "And you chose me over dying prematurely of liver failure."

House's gaze flickered to the consol and then around the interior of the car for a second. "I shouldn't have said that. About…me dying first. It was…mean."

"Yeah." Wilson sighed and made an effort not to squirm. "But you were just stating a fact. It's what you do."

"I still shouldn't have said it," House insisted. He grew quiet for a moment while Wilson watched him, surprised by this almost-apology. House struck the floor mat with his cane, clearly uncomfortable with the frank turn in the conversation, and then he offered, "I wouldn't be able to…if you were…first. I wouldn't…I don't…I shouldn't have said it." He puffed his cheeks out, shifting air back and forth in his mouth: a nervous habit.

This time when Wilson reached out, House let him touch. Wilson coaxed his face around and then struggled against his seat belt to reach House's mouth over the consol. They traded chaste kisses, something tender that neither of them were accustomed to experiencing with the other. Wilson's fingers brushed lightly over the stubble on House's law line, like petting a spiky hamster. Slowly, the kisses deepened and their tongues caressed lips without demanding entrance. House snuffled a breath through his nose and then reached up to grasp the back of Wilson's neck, drawing him closer. They stayed like that for quite a few minutes, until Wilson felt his pants tighten over his recalcitrant crotch.

Wilson pulled back reluctantly with a last peck on the corner of House's mouth, and then settled into his own seat. They both remained silent for a little while, and then House – in typical House fashion – shattered the moment.

"So, did you get me a present, or do your plans involve less tangible but more fun gifts?"

Wilson smirked and cast him a coy, sidelong glance. "Both."

House's eyebrow twitched. "You slut."

Wilson rolled his eyes and started the car. "Only you could make that a term of endearment."

"Well, I'm sure as hell not gonna start calling you moopsie." His face turned contemplative. "Though it might be worth it to see the look on Foreman's face."

"I would have to kill you," Wilson stated firmly. "And then have you stuffed and preserved so that I can keep you around."

"That's…morbid," House replied with a laugh. "New fetish?"

"Anything to keep you from getting bored."

"It's so sweet how you're always thinking of me." House leered at him from the next seat, his head thrown back against the headrest.

Wilson shivered. "Don't ever look at me like that again."

House snorted, amused, and made himself comfortable for the ride home, wiggling around in his seat and tugging on his coat so that it didn't choke him. "You know you like it. Just admit it."

"I plead the fifth."

They rode the rest of the way to 221B in easy silence, House fiddling incessantly with the radio and the window controls, but Wilson didn't have it in him to be irritated. He was glad that a disastrous fight had been averted, but the glimpse of House that he had just been treated to…it rustled about in the back of his mind. House honestly thought that Wilson would place his reputation first, and worse, that Wilson would be justified in doing so – like it made perfect sense, like _anyone_ would do the same thing because…what, because it was _just_ House? What the hell could make a man as accomplished and self-assured as House believe something like that? Wilson knew damn well that he had wronged House on many occasions, but nothing that he had done could explain this fundamental lack of self worth. It did explain a great deal about House's medical practices, though; his patients were always the most important thing, more important than House in every way. Why was that? Perhaps because they were not House, and were simply more important by definition.

Whatever the explanation, Wilson didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to imagine the sorts of things that might have led House to those conclusions. It was too deep-seated a thing to have been recent, and Wilson merely wanted to rid House of it. House deserved better than to think of himself as a throw-away commodity.

House got out of the car as soon as Wilson parked and hurried inside as if he could feel Wilson's ruminations and planned to outrun them. Wilson smiled as the lobby door closed over his skewed form, then circled to his trunk. He hefted the black box and straightened the ribbon, wondering what, exactly, that shop girl had put in there. He probably should have examined the contents before now, but in truth, he was a bit intimidated. He had never in his life used a sex toy – hadn't needed to. There was a reason for his reputation as a womanizer, though he wasn't exactly proud of it. He simply didn't need a substitute for sex.

"Wilson!"

Wilson looked up to find House's head sticking out his apartment window.

"You just gonna stand there? I want my present."

Wilson rolled his eyes, shifted the box to one arm, and awkwardly elbowed the trunk lid shut. "Oh, shut up, you ungrateful bastard." He hoped that none of the neighbors were intrepid window-openers this time of year – the insistent fresh-air types. "And shut the damn window. Your heating bill's bad enough as it is."

House called him something obscene and slammed the sash down, but he did so with a grin. Wilson made a point of not skipping steps as he hopped into the building and strode down the hall to House's apartment. If House caught him acting eager, there would be no end to the mockery. The second he stepped into the apartment, House reached for the gift box, a childish sort of enthusiasm sketched onto his features. It was like the man had never gotten a birthday present before, or at least not one that he placed meaning in.

Wilson backed out of reach, the black box cradled against his stomach. "Okay, look. I really wasn't sure about this, but I couldn't think of anything else, okay?"

House treated him to an exasperated look. "You can't attach disclaimers to birthday presents."

"Since when?" Wilson shifted the box around. It was heavy – since when were sex toys so damn heavy? _Since you probably purchased half the items in stock_, his inner voice said. Darn…his inner voice sounded like House. "I just want you to know that if you don't like it, I'll take it all back and buy you something else. In fact, I'll just give you my credit card and let you get whatever you want."

House scoffed, but in amusement. "I already have access to your credit cards. In fact, I have the numbers memorized. But I appreciate the symbolic gesture." He held his hands out, his cane hooked over one arm. "Now gimme."

Suddenly, Wilson convinced himself that his gift was a monumentously bad idea. "Seriously – I just – "

House's hands dropped, but he grinned like an idiot. "You're blushing! What did you get me?" He clasped his hands and adopted an over-the-top hopeful face. "Is it a Wii? Did you get me a Wii?"

Wilson's stomach dropped. Oh shit. He squeaked, "Did you _want_ one?"

House paused to contemplate him with his head tilted to one side, a confused smirk painted on his scrunched up features. "Oh, this is good. You're embarrassed." He held out his hands again. "Fork it over, moopsie."

"Don't call me moopsie, dumpling," Wilson snapped, more worried than annoyed, but he let House take the big black box.

"Mm, feisty," House replied, clearly enjoying this production. "Must be something sappy in here." House limped heavily to the desk and shook the box before setting it down. "Something you know I'll mock you for." He threw Wilson a devilish grin as he untied the ribbon.

"It's hardly sappy," Wilson replied. At least for once, House had absolutely no clue about the contents of that box. He could take some solace in knowing that he could still surprise the man. As House pulled off the lid, Wilson made a face and glanced away to steel himself for any reaction.

House stared, his face running a gamut of emotions. Then he grinned, and then he laughed and pulled out – Wilson covered his face in shame – a set of titanium anal beads, which he dangled gleefully in front of Wilson's beet-red face. "Wilson…" He could hardly speak, he was laughing so hard. "You _dog_. What did you do, buy half the porn shop?"

"Not exactly." Wilson's neck burned. Hell, he was probably blushing below the belt too.

House dropped the beads back in and rummaged around. He snorted and pulled out a vibrating cock ring, trying desperately to remain coherent enough to taunt Wilson. "You…" He couldn't do it. He dissolved into a fit of laughter at the expression on Wilson's face and leaned on the desk with the cock ring extended on three fingers, hovering under Wilson's nose. "You – hghghg!"

"Yeah, yeah – laugh it up." Wilson scrubbed at the back of his neck, mortified but smiling against his will. It was unbelievably nice to see House happy, but did it have to come at his expense?

House swiped the back of his hand over his cheek; he was laughing hard enough to cry. "You don't even know what's in here, do you?"

Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets, defensive. "Hey, I was there. I know exactly…" At House's lopsided, knowing look, Wilson rolled his eyes. "Okay, I picked out two things."

House tried to mock him but he ended up sitting on the edge of the desk because he couldn't stop laughing at the thought of Wilson bumbling about in a porn shop.

"The cashier girl picked the rest."

House folded over and choked over his glee. "You – ! You just – what? Gave her your credit card and told her to go nuts?" His voice had gone up two octaves and he was breathless from laughing. "Did you even go inside, or did you just beckon from the doorway and then wait in the car?"

"I went inside!" Wilson bit back, but House's laughter was infectious. "I just…didn't look at anything… Have you seen the sorts of things in those shops?"

House waxed incoherent again and finally put the cock ring back in the box.

"I mean, the – the – " He stepped closer and his voice dropped to a whisper, like his Rabbi might hear him talking about no-no things. " – the dildos they have in there? They're like…some of them were glow in the dark!"

"Glow – dark – Wilson!" House slid off the desk and ended up in a giggling heap on the floor. "We could get some markers and a glue stick," he offered between gulps of air, "and decorate you...make you all swirly and…" His fingers did some sort of dance that managed to convey colors and polka dots and sparkles while he snorted and tried to keep breathing.

Wilson pressed his lips together and made a face at the ceiling. "Great. You finish up down there. I think I'll go take a shower."

"Wait!" House grabbed Wilson's ankle to stop him and put forth enough effort to calm down. Once he'd caught his breath, he held a hand up and Wilson pulled him back to his feet. House kept his hands on Wilson's shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes, looking for all the world like he was truly happy just then. "I think this is the best birthday gift anybody's ever given me."

The seriousness took Wilson off guard, but he recovered in time to retort, "What, better than a brand new five-speed bike with training wheels?"

House grasped Wilson's neck without warning and leaned in until their exhalations mingled. His voice turned sultry. "Much better."

House closed the distance between them and Wilson immediately opened his mouth for a taste of Vicodin and coffee. At some point, Wilson had come to associate that flavor exclusively with House, and his body responded like one of Pavlov's drooling dogs. He backed House up against the desk and insinuated himself between House's legs, bringing their groins flush. They were both still at half mast from their teenager-worthy make-out session in the car, and Wilson rolled his hips forward, his hands snaking around to the small of House's back. He pulled House's body against him and arched forward to increase the contact. Their lips moved in a wet rhythm, tongues entwined in each other's mouths, blocking their breath. Wilson grunted as House shoved his fingers into the back of Wilson's pants, blunt fingernails digging into soft flesh. Wilson thrust again, his blood flooding south as his clothed cock encountered the hardness in House's jeans. Their motions intensified, Wilson's hands roaming over House's shoulder blades as his pelvis rocked of its own accord, their groins impacting with soft bursts of cottoned friction. They groped each other, half mindless in a blind effort to increase the sensations. Wilson felt sweat break out all over his body, flushed with arousal. His breath hitched and he moaned softly, clutching House's body as the heat pooled in his groin.

The phone rang.

Wilson started and jerked back, but House's mouth on the hollow of his throat quickly drowned out the ringing landline. Wilson kept up the motion of his hips, his torso pressed firmly against House's, his head thrown back as air caught in his throat, turning his moan into a sharp, needy grunt. The phone kept jangling, irritating but inconsequential. Wilson wrapped his left arm tightly around House's waist and leaned forward, bracing himself with his right hand planted on the desk behind House. He increased the tempo of his thrusts, frotting shamelessly, and House matched his movements, his grip on Wilson almost painful. House let out a shuddering moan as he mouthed Wilson's neck, their clothed erections pressing against their flies.

The phone stopped ringing and switched over to voicemail. House's answering machine clicked and played out an obnoxious message. _"Whoever you are, you're a moron. You can leave a message, but I'm just gonna erase it." _

The beep sounded over Wilson's whimper as he curled forward and buried his face in House's neck, thrusting harder. House's grip on his buttocks added more force and Wilson wondered when House had managed to unbuckle him so that he could reach that far into his pants.

"_Greg? Honey, it's mom."_

House choked and staggered as Wilson froze against him.

"_Look, I know I didn't call first, but I didn't want you to find a way to avoid me this time."_ She said this fondly, as if House's disappearing acts and evasions were cute.

"Crap," House mumbled. He didn't let go of Wilson, but they both craned their necks to look at the answering machine.

"_I came to surprise you for your birthday."_

"What does she mean, '_came to surprise you_'?" Wilson asked.

"_My plane landed a little while ago. I'm in the cab now. You're at 221B, right?_"

House stopped breathing for a second. "Um."

_"I'm sure you'll pick up if I'm wrong. You wouldn't just let me knock on some poor stranger's door."_

"House?"

"Hide the box."

"What?"

"She's gonna be here any second!"

_"Anyway, I'll be there in a few minutes, dear. I already called your friend Lisa at the hospital. She said you're home by now, so don't try to turn out the lights and hide in the bathroom."_

Wilson scrambled to find the lid and stuff it back onto the black box of naughtiness.

"_I love you, honey. See you soon."_ The line clicked and the answering machine shut off.

"Hide it. Put it in your car."

Wilson fumbled to zip up his pants, but it wasn't easy considering his raging hard-on.

"Wilson – "

"I'm trying!"

House threw glances between their prominent crotches and then tossed a panicked glance out the window. "Oh my god, Wilson – my _mom_ is gonna see that!"

Wilson swore but managed to get himself buttoned, zipped and buckled. Then he grabbed the box and headed toward the door just when the knocking started.

"Greg? Come on, open up. It's just me."

Wilson looked over his shoulder, his heart hammering in his chest. The adrenaline did nothing to help deflate his pants. He hissed, "Do something!"

House's eyes were wide but he just shook his head, his shoulders lifting, at a loss. Wilson gestured at House's crotch and House bit his lip because he didn't have anything to cover himself with and his _mother_ was at the door. At least Wilson had the black box to block Blythe's view.

"Stall her," House whispered. He grabbed his cane and pushed off the desk.

"What – House!" Wilson looked at the door and then glared at House's back as he hobbled to the bathroom. Swearing under his breath, Wilson ran a hand through his hair and then carried the box to the door with him.

Blythe knocked again as Wilson cracked it open, and she gave him a startled look before the recognition set in. "James! It's so good to see you. Is Greg in there?"

Wilson cleared his throat and stepped back, opening the door for her. "He's, uh, in the bathroom. We just got ho – back from work." Crap, he almost slipped up there. Blythe didn't know about them.

"Oh, honey." Blythe gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Are you living on Greg's couch again? We really need to find you a good, decent girl. That can't be good for your back."

Of course; like mother like son. Blythe could pick up on just about anything. "Yeah…I guess." He tried for a sheepish smile and gestured for Blythe's coat.

"What do you have there?" Blythe gestured to the black box as she handed over her coat.

Wilson hung her coat up and hugged the box to his stomach like a possessive child. "Just…House's present." God, he was no good at hiding things, and House's mother had a more penetrating stare than House himself could ever dream of having. He could feel his follicles twitching as crimson spread to his hairline, but he hid it by reaching out into the hallway to drag Mrs. House's suitcase inside.

"You could set it down, dear."

Wilson shut the door and mentally cursed House. "No, it's okay. It's…fragile."

Blythe looked interested at that point. "What did you get him?"

"Mom!"

Wilson sagged against the door in relief as House emerged, _finally_. If Wilson had still harbored any reservations about torturing House with the contents of the black box, those reservations were long gone. Blythe's face lit up as she strode forward to embrace her son.

House winked at Wilson over her shoulder and Wilson flipped him off. "You should have called, mom."

"I did." Blythe playfully batted his arm.

"I meant before," House clarified. It was amazing how mothers could reduce their sons to bashful kids no matter how old they really were. House didn't seem to mind her presence all that much, though he moved warily, much as he had at his dad's funeral.

"Oh, I hope I didn't interrupt anything," Blythe replied. "James was just about to show me your present. Did you open it already?"

House paled a bit but Blythe didn't notice; she had turned to face Wilson. Wilson just stared, frozen with his back against the door.

"Um, mom. Why don't we go out to dinner?"

"Greg, honestly. What's to be so embarrassed about?"

Wilson piped up with, "It's a guy thing. You know…stuff."

Blythe turned back to House and slapped his arm. "Greg House. That better not mean what I think it means, and don't think you're too old for me to clean out under your bed."

Wilson snorted and ignored the indignant glares from the room's other occupants.

"Mom," House whined. "Come on. Not in front of Wilson."

Blythe pursed her lips but relented. "I'm not here to scold you. But you should know better." She paused long enough for House to mutter something in agreement, and then Blythe patted his cheek. "Boys will be boys."

House smiled sheepishly.

"But you – " Blythe turned to point a motherly finger at Wilson, and Wilson straightened automatically. "You're supposed to be the good one. Stop encouraging him."

"Yes, Mrs. House. Sorry." Wilson looked away and wondered how moms managed to do that – instill shame in a bare instant. Was it something they practiced? Were there secret classes on technique and vocal tricks?

"So…" House shifted back and leaned on his cane. "How long are you staying?"

"Oh, just a couple of days. I want to stop by your aunt Sara's before I go home." She patted House's cheek again. "I've missed you. With your father gone, it feels like nobody's around anymore." House stiffened and Blythe backed off with a nod of acceptance. "I know you didn't get along with him, honey. But for my sake, just pretend for a little bit. The house feels empty without him."

House sucked his lips between his teeth and looked away, but he nodded. His gaze found Wilson's; it seemed like he was pleading for a distraction or a change in subject.

Wilson hurried forward, relieved that his erection had finally faded, and set the box back on the desk. "Mrs. House, we haven't eaten yet. Can we take you out to dinner?"

Blythe smiled. "Oh, that would be wonderful." She glanced between the two of them, a proud mother, and latched onto House's left arm. "You know, I've always thought the two of you go well together. I'm so glad Greg has a friend like you." She stretched up to kiss House's cheek, and House made a squirmy face, like a ten-year-old confronted with cooties. "He saves you from being rude, dear."

"Mom, knock it off." House shifted his weight around, though it was unclear if his leg was bothering him or if he was just uncomfortable with her displays of affection. Wilson couldn't remember her being quite so hands-on the last few times he had met her. Losing her husband must have left her starved for family connections.

Wilson reached for Blythe's coat and held it open for her. "Do you have a hotel room? If not, you can stay at my apartment. I'll crash here."

Blythe had turned to let Wilson put her coat on, but she stopped to face him again, studying his features. "If you have an apartment, why are you living here?"

House saved him from that well-meant blunder. "It's Amber's apartment, mom."

"Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry, James." Blythe laid a comforting hand on Wilson's shoulder. "I didn't realize you two had lived together."

Wilson felt his features pinch at the mention of his girlfriend's death, but he forced himself to smile and nod. "It's clean, and there's food. It'll be more comfortable than a hotel."

Blythe slipped her arms into her coat and Wilson settled it on her shoulders – the perfect gentleman. "I don't want to intrude, James. That's your space."

"It's okay, Mrs. House. Amber wouldn't mind."

"Oh, dear." Blythe rose up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek, the same as she'd just done to House. "You're too sweet. You're sure?"

Wilson shrugged and only barely managed to pull off 'casual'. "Somebody should get some use out of it."

"Well, thank you. I appreciate it." Blythe turned to take House's arm again. "Where shall we go for dinner, then?"

--TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Italian seemed in order for the evening, but only because House whined about wanting lasagna. They found a nice restaurant near the PPTH campus, one with low lights and a soft ambiance to give the illusion of privacy even though the tables were packed in precise rows like sardines. Wilson insisted on a table, not a booth, under the mistaken impression that it would be harder for House to fondle him under the table if their thighs weren't pressing together in obscenely close quarters, stuffed on a bench built for two, but only if the two were no wider than Callista Flockhart. He forgot about the cane, of course. And its long reach. And its curvy antique wine-corking handle. Somehow, he always forgot about the cane, which was currently grazing his inseam. Didn't Hector eat that one five years ago? If not, he should have. Maybe Bonnie would loan him the dog for a night. That mutt had to be decrepit by now.

_Oo! Fuck._ Did his eyes just bug out? God, he hoped not. Blythe gave him a strange look for choking on his sip of water, though. _Stop, House._ Wilson glared incinerating thoughts across the table. _Stopstopstop! Um…oh._ Wilson's balls fit perfectly into the curve of the cane handle. And when House twirled it, the other end of the handle massaged a neat, firm line at the base of his penis. _Oh god…ohhhhhh god_… Wilson squirmed. Not good.

House feigned intense interest in the wine list from the other side of the table. Trying to be surreptitious, Wilson shook out his napkin and stuffed it on his lap. While his hands were down there, he grabbed the cane handle and wrenched it to the side. House's arm flew forward and struck the edge of the table before he lost his grip. The table teetered, the salt shaker fell over, and water sloshed from all their glasses.

"Oh! Goodness," Blythe exclaimed.

Wilson smiled smugly and hooked the cane over the back of his own chair. And he did _not_ put his hands in his lap. No. No way.

"Greg, please. It's like you're five all over again."

"Trust me, he is," Wilson piped up. "Vicodin causes infantile regression."

House glared daggers at him; they had already argued in harsh whispers in the parking lot over whether or not House's pupils were inexplicably pinpointed. "I'm not stoned, you ass."

Blythe shifted in her seat and gave House a hard look. "Honestly. That's the sort of language I'd expect from your father at the dinner table. Not you."

Only Wilson noticed the sharp breath that House cut off as he hid his nose in the menu, including the retort that went with it. They spent a few minutes in silence until their drinks came. House seemed preoccupied with his thigh and Wilson made a point not to draw attention to that. It was probably the cause of his unpredictable irritability.

Small talk reigned all throughout appetizers and dinner, the inane sort of chatter that House couldn't abide and Wilson had to carry on in his stead. In any other trio, it would be strange for mother and son to personally exchange so few words, but Wilson didn't mind mediating, and it didn't seem to bother either of his table companions. Wilson focused on stories about House's cases and fellows, and Blythe seemed happy to hear these things at all. How could House actually talk to his mother so little, and yet claim to love her?

After coffee had been served, Blythe perked up and reached to grasp the back of House's hand, which rested on the table beside her. "So tell me. Are you seeing someone?"

House shrugged. "I'm seeing Wilson. See him all the time, as a matter of fact. I also see dumb people and Bruce Willis, but, eh." He gestured dismissively with his free hand.

"Oh, come on." Blythe squeezed his hand and leaned toward him. "I can't remember seeing you this relaxed since Stacy left. You must have met someone."

Wilson tried really hard not to look self-satisfied. So, Blythe noticed House acting differently? A mother would know. Score one for Wilson! "Yeah, House. Do tell."

House glanced uneasily at his mother and then looked at Wilson. "Seriously?"

Wilson sobered too at that point. They hadn't exactly discussed the whole coming-out-to-family thing, and if he had been thinking more clearly a moment ago, he might have kept his big mouth shut. They'd been drinking wine all evening, though; Wilson's mouth had long since detached from his higher reasoning centers.

Blythe appeared scandalized as he and House merely regarded each other in grim silence. "Greg, it's not your boss, is it? Lisa? Isn't that a bit of a…a conflict? Are you allowed to date a fellow employee?"

The corner of House's mouth twitched, though not in amusement. It might have been resignation, or distaste. "Yes, I'm allowed. There's no policy against it."

Blythe's brows went up in expectation. "So it _is_ Lisa?" She started to smile.

House cut her off mid-motherly-gush. "Cuddy's just a friend."

"It's someone else, then. Another doctor?"

Wilson grabbed his wine glass and realized that he really didn't want to do this, now that the news was about to break. He stole a glance at House, but House was picking at the tablecloth.

Blythe slid to the edge of her seat to better clasp House's forearm. "What kind of doctor is she? What specialty?"

House's mouth twitched again and he inhaled a sigh, his eyes flickering to Wilson for a bare second before he focused on his scotch instead. He picked up the glass but didn't drink from it; he simply held it, drawing fortitude from beads of condensation squished into the seams of his palm. "He's an oncologist." His fingers flexed around the glass to somehow indicate Wilson.

Blythe glanced at Wilson, then back to House with a wry look. "Yes, I know what James does, dear. Stop deflecting and tell me about this new girl of yours."

"Mom." House rested his scotch on the table but kept his fingers wrapped around it. He tilted his head to regard her from his periphery with an impossible mixture of irritation, defeat and openness – a man who had no stamina left for this conversation, not even to point out that the other party was ignoring the obvious.

That expression drove Wilson to down the rest of his wine in one gulp, a little over half a glass. He managed not to cough as it burned his nose; it was dryer than he normally liked. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and watched Blythe through the wine glass as she threw him a bewildered look.

Blythe inhaled suddenly and pulled back. "Oh." Her hands fluttered for a second before settling in her lap and she looked down at them as it sunk in. "Oh, my."

House's hand curled as his mother withdrew and he slumped back as if trying to hide in his chair. He glanced up at Wilson but couldn't manage to hold his gaze, and Wilson watched House's breathing turn shallow as he sucked on his lower lip. House contemplated his scotch for a second before gulping the entire double-shot with the smooth flair of a regular drinker.

A quiet anxiety stole through Wilson too; he thanked god that he thought to take his medication before leaving House's apartment. Wilson sucked in a breath and then opened his mouth to say something, but no words formed. He spluttered long enough for Blythe to give him a concerned look, and then deflated in his chair, one fist on the table and one in his lap, the living definition of awkward.

"Oh, Greg." Blythe sighed and House warily turned to face her. "I'm actually glad your father's not here for this."

The hurt was fleeting, but it was there; Wilson saw it ghost across House's features as his mouth parted a fraction. He stared at his mom's downcast eyes, dumbstruck, and then he twisted around to slip his blazer from the chair back. His expression may have trembled but he clamped his jaw before Wilson could be sure. Their gazes met over the table, and the way House's eyes glittered made him seem less real, as if a movie scene had faded to shades of silver.

Blythe looked up sharply as House shoved his chair back. Wilson stood too, House's cane in one hand and his empty wine glass still clenched in the other.

"Greg – "

"It's okay, mom. You don't have to explain." His voice cracked.

Wilson looked down, his eyes tracing patterns on the carpet as he tried to think of something to say, some way to fix this.

"Where are you going?" Blythe extended a hand but House backed away, reaching toward Wilson for his cane. Wilson handed it over.

"I'll call you a cab. You can go to Aunt Sara's. I'll pay for it."

"Greg, wait."

Either the desperation held House back or he obeyed out of habit, but he _did_ stop, albeit with his back turned. Wilson shuffled in place while House tapped out an angry rhythm on the floor with his cane.

Blythe sank back into her seat and patted the arm of House's vacated chair. "Honey, that's not how I meant it. Please sit back down." She turned her gaze on Wilson as House deigned to come stiffly back to the table. "James, be a dear and go get us some drinks from the bar, will you?"

Wilson glanced at House to make sure he didn't mind Wilson leaving them alone, then placed his wine glass carefully back on the table. He gave one of his meek little half smiles, lips pressed together and forced to curve upward, and then he retreated. Once his back was turned, he let his entire face fall and mentally chewed himself a new one for bringing that up and putting House through it. What the hell sort of a moron was he? A moron fluffed on expensive red wine, apparently.

He must've looked a wreck by the time he reached the otherwise empty bar and hauled himself onto a stool. The barmaid, a woman close to Wilson's age, took one look at him and smirked in sympathy. "You definitely need a drink, hon."

"I need a muzzle," Wilson countered.

"Lemme guess." She leaned her elbows on the bar near Wilson's forearm and flipped a few fingers in the direction of his table. "That's your boyfriend's mother, and this was revelation night."

Wilson straightened and made an annoyed face. "Why does everyone keep doing that?"

"Doin' what, hon?" She perched against the bar with a definite come-hither flair.

Wilson wondered why the hell women's flirtations went into overdrive the moment they realized he was dating another guy. "Noticing that we're…you know. Together. Like it's obvious."

"Because it _is_ obvious, silly." She flicked Wilson's shoulder with her towel and then got back to business. "What are you havin'?"

Wilson groaned and mashed his face into his palm. "Water. But I'll need a Riesling and a scotch, neat, for them."

"Comin' right up." She smiled, sweet and seductive the way Wilson used to have to troll for, and sauntered away to prepare the drinks.

Wilson caught himself staring at the slow sway of her hips under the bar apron, and shook himself. He didn't even have a flimsy excuse to stray; for a man saddled with opiates, House had one hell of an overactive libido. Wilson got more than enough satisfaction at home. Besides, he didn't want to screw this one up. House mattered.

Over at the table, Blythe leaned in to keep their conversation private, her body angled the way only a mother could pull off, both of her hands resting softly on House's forearm. House was a mass of tension, his head facing the opposite way, his fingers drumming the tablecloth as he listened to his mother jabber away near his ear. Whatever she was saying, it didn't appear to make any difference to him. Eventually, he tipped his head back in exasperation at the ceiling and then turned to reply. Wilson could only hear the tone of his voice from his vantage point at the bar, but plenty of other diners paused to glance curiously at him. When House noticed this, he mashed his face into his palm, made a parting remark, and then pulled himself to his feet. Wilson watched him thread his way precariously around close-knit tables to the back of the restaurant, presumably on his way to the lavatory. Blythe's eyes tracked his progress until he disappeared down a hallway, and then she crossed her arms on the table and sighed.

"Here you go, hun."

Wilson started at the barmaid's voice right behind him, then gathered up the drinks with a murmur of thanks. She smiled sympathetically and told him that she had already added everything to their dinner tab, then sashayed to the next customer.

Blythe glanced up as Wilson entered her field of vision, three glasses balanced carefully in his hands. "James, I'm sorry."

Wilson had no idea what she was apologizing for, aside from the scene they had made. "It's fine," he said, but only because he knew that she expected a response.

"I just want you to know that it's nothing against you, or Greg."

Wilson hesitated, his chin tucked as if that would make his thoughts flow without stuttering in his head. "You…don't approve. And that's fine," he hurried to add. "I don't expect everyone – "

Blythe's hand on his arm interrupted him, and he finally looked straight at her. She was shaking her head, smiling as if to humor him, but not in mean way; it was that patented motherly look that all women wore when their children did something that they disagreed with, but that they couldn't change. "What I said about John… I only meant that he would have made a scene, in public or not, and I'm glad he isn't here for that. Or to…to say things to Greg about it… I don't want my son to hurt, James. Understand that."

Uncertainly, Wilson said, "Okay."

Blythe nodded, then continued. "I'm not going to pretend that I like this. I still hoped for grandchildren, or for a daughter-in-law… But I want him to be happy, and if this is the only way for that to happen, then I can be glad for that much anyway. So I'm okay with this." She patted his arm, then settled back and reached for the fresh glass of wine that Wilson had set down in front of her.

Wilson contemplated his water, then took a breath and straightened to face her again. "You told House all of this?"

"Yes." She exhaled in disappointment. "Or I tried to."

Wilson bit one side of his bottom lip, and then set his water down when House limped into sight. Instead of returning to the table, House stood by the hostess counter and glowered expectantly at Wilson from the other end of the restaurant. Wilson sighed and started gathering both their things – jackets and cell phones, and Wilson's keys. Blythe did the same as soon as she realized that her son was not going to sit back down after all of that.

When they reached the doors, House went out of his way to put Wilson between himself and his mother. "I took care of the check. Let's go."

Wilson shot him an incredulous look. "_You_ actually paid for the meal?"

"More or less." House reached into his back pocket and then tossed something to Wilson.

Wilson caught it and then glared at House from beneath lowered brows. "This is _my_ wallet."

"You shouldn't leave that lying around."

"It wasn't lying around," Wilson snapped. "It was in my pocket."

House shrugged. "Same thing."

The entire car ride was strained. Blythe sat in the front passenger seat, picking at her handbag while House hunched behind her and cast dark looks out the window. Wilson's overly-cautious driving went unmentioned for once, and they reached his apartment with a refreshing lack of backseat griping. When Wilson and Blythe opened their doors to climb out, House made it clear that he had no intention of seeing his mother off. He accomplished this simply by thumbing his lock and remaining there in the car, silent as a stone.

Wilson tried not to comment on the awkwardness as he led Blythe up the stairs and into the building, but after he showed her in, his mouth started flapping. It was almost like a curse, his need to smooth over tense situations. "He's just sulking. It'll pass in an hour or two – we can get lunch tomorrow, maybe visit a museum. He'll get over it."

"He has no reason to," Blythe remarked. It sounded like a casual observation, save for the long breath that followed. "It's okay. I suppose it was just a matter of time before…well. Before he decided that some things couldn't go unsaid any longer."

The words were too loaded for Wilson to attribute Blythe's melancholy to just the ruined after-dinner. Wilson weighed his words carefully, then asked, "What sorts of things?"

Blythe raised her head and regarded him long enough to settle something in her own mind. But instead of answering, she merely said, "He was right to refuse to come to the funeral. I was being selfish, wanting him there, expecting him to laud his father."

"I know they didn't get along," Wilson offered, though he had no idea why this was suddenly important. "But he needed to go."

Blythe gave him a grateful look, though she clearly didn't buy into his platitude. "Not everything is that simple. Now, come – show me around so that you and Greg can go home. I've wrecked enough of his birthday already."

Wilson didn't want to let the conversation go, but there was nothing for it; he didn't know what to say because he wasn't sure what Blythe was really talking about. It reminded him of House's penchant for carrying on a conversation while the other party tried to guess the topic. He toured the apartment with Blythe, showed her how to operate the coffee maker and the shower, and pointed out fresh linens. It had been several nights since Wilson slept here, so everything was clean and ready for her. She pecked his cheek as he left, accepting his set of keys before she shut the door behind him. He wondered if she were so eager to get rid of him so that she could sit somewhere and cry; her eyes had hinted at that need ever since they left the restaurant.

House had climbed into the front seat by the time Wilson returned, and he had turned the car back on so that he could listen to the radio. Classic rock wafted out between snowflakes as Wilson opened the door long enough to get in. Once he had arranged his coat and scarf comfortably in the confined space, Wilson looked to his right and asked, point-blank, "What did she say to you?"

House shrugged. "Nothing important. Just a lot of crap about my dad."

"Hm." Wilson processed that for a moment. "So it wasn't all about…you know. Us?"

"Nope. Less than two sentences worth of 'us,' as a matter of fact." He puffed out his cheeks and then said, "We'd get home faster if you moved that little knobby thing to the big D."

Wilson only deigned to shift into drive because he wanted to go back to House's apartment too. He still needed a shower. Whatever House family drama was brewing, it could wait until morning. A year ago, he wouldn't have let it go, not even for a day. He would have pushed House to disclose the problem despite the fact that House would shut down completely rather than trust Wilson. Funny, but Wilson had finally learned that if he just shut up and waited long enough, House would volunteer the information on his own, when he was ready. It might take a while, but even House needed to talk about things now and then.

About halfway there, House started tossing wary glances across the center consol at Wilson. A minute later, the glances turned irritated, and then bewildered. As Wilson braked and shifted into reverse to parallel park, House jutted his chin out, contemplated the front of his building, and then twisted to face Wilson. "That's it? You're not gonna grill me until I tell you what we talked about?"

"Nope." Wilson braced his hand on House's headrest and contorted until he could see out his back window.

House's head fell to one side. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"But you're, like, the king of butting in."

Wilson took a second to roll his eyes. "Kettle? Is that you? You're so pale, I hardly recognized you."

"Seriously," House pressed. "You're not even a little bit curious?"

"Actually, I'm insanely curious. But I'm not gonna try and pry it out of you."

House sputtered and shook his head, though he appeared uncertain rather than annoyed. "Why not?"

Wilson shifted into park and directed the blandest gaze he could manage at House. "Because I want sex tonight. And if I piss you off, I won't get any." He dipped his head just a little bit. "Is that a problem for you?"

House blinked, his mouth fighting to turn up at the corners. "Nope."

"Good." Wilson pulled his key from the ignition and climbed out. He heard House do the same but didn't bother waiting for him. By the time House made it inside, Wilson was shirtless and on his way to the bathroom. "I need a shower. I'll only be a minute."

From the living room, House called, "I'll just occupy myself, then."

Wilson stopped in the hallway. That tone of voice heralded nothing innocent. He stepped backwards until he could see House standing at his desk, though his body blocked Wilson's view. "What are you doing?"

House started and moved to further occlude Wilson's line of sight. He was wearing his up-to-no-good face. "Nothing." He shrugged to emphasize that. "Go. Shower."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Nnnnooo. Not until you tell me what you're doing."

When Wilson abandoned his intended trip to the bathroom and approached House, House secreted something in his blazer and detoured around the couch to reach the hallway. Over his shoulder, he said, "I told you. Nothing."

"Uh-huh." Wilson watched him disappear into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Then he noticed the big black box of unmentionables sitting open on the desktop. "Nothing, my ass." He stalked down the hall and pounded on the bedroom door. "Start without me, and I'll make you regret it."

House's voice came back deadened by the door between them. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Wilson muttered to himself but he went to take his shower anyway. He could feel the grease in his hair. Though House could care less, Wilson liked it to be soft and to smell good. It was only after he rinsed the shampoo out that he realized his conditioner bottle was empty.

"Dammit. House?"

A muffled acknowledgment filtered through the steam and walls to Wilson's ears.

"I need a new bottle of conditioner. It's on the shelf by the toilet."

"Get it yourself – you've got two legs."

"And you're already standing in the doorway, you ass – I can hear you. Just hand it to me." Wilson stuck his arm out from behind the curtain and wiggled his fingers, dripping water all over the mat.

House thumped his way into the room and Wilson heard him rustling items on the shelf. "I don't see any girlie hair care products. You'll just have to wait until tomorrow."

"What?" Wilson fumbled the curtain aside so that he could see the window sill and shelf for himself. "But – but – "

"But what? It's not like your hair's long enough to get tangled."

"House, I need conditioner. You don't understand. If I just leave it, then the blow dryer will dry it out, and it'll get brittle – "

"Oh my god. Wilson."

"What? There has to be something…bubble bath can work in a pinch – it's full of moisturizers. Do you have – "

House's head appeared right in front of Wilson's face; he must have been hiding at the foot of the tub.

Wilson jumped and nearly slipped, but he grabbed a pipe in time. "Jesus, House."

"I'll ignore you using my Lord's name in vain." House smiled sweetly. It was scary. "There _is_, as a matter of fact, a common household item that supposedly makes a good hair conditioner. Wanna try it?"

Wilson squinted at him. "You're scheming."

"I'm serious," House countered. Oh, yeah; very convincing.

"Okay," Wilson said. His neck prickled though, every sense on high alert for a practical joke of some sort. For some reason, he only then looked southward. "House…you're naked."

House smirked and took his hands from behind his back. "And I have bath toys." He thrust a bright blue dildo in Wilson's face, then turned it over. "Look! It suctions."

"Your childlike glee is…disturbing." Wilson shot him a wry look and then ducked back into the shower.

House pulled back the curtain to continue the conversation. "I've also got waterproof lube and a _really_ cool masturbation sleeve. Check it out." He stuck a finger in it and wiggled it joyfully for Wilson to see. "It had beads or marbles or something in there – they move around."

"You are _not_ suggesting – "

House's entire face morphed and his voice became sultry enough that Wilson shut up, his pupils no doubt dilating on the spot. "What I'm suggesting is that you go off like a bottle rocket, and if I expect you to last at all tonight, you should probably release some of that pent-up energy now."

Wilson almost swallowed, but his throat was too dry. "Oh."

"Hold these." House shoved the dildo, sleeve and lube bottle into Wilson's clumsy hands, then supported his weight on the water pipes as he clambered into the tub. A suppressed grimace and a deep breath later, House took all of his bath toys back and then eyed Wilson.

"What?" Wilson looked down at himself, self conscious. He was more than half hard, not urgently so, but definitely aroused. He glanced at House to find a mere stirring.

He peered back up as House wet the bottom of the obnoxious blue dildo and then stuck it to the tiled wall. He placed the lube and the sleeve on the rim of the tub and surveyed the scene before declaring, "Perfect." Then he proceeded to ignore the silicon appendage poking out in the space between them, and beckoned to Wilson. "C'mere."

Wilson shot the suction-cupped dildo an uneasy look but stepped around it. He was about to inquire as to House's plans for him, but before he could form words, House's hand was dragging him in by the back of his neck. Their lips met, House's chapped and Wilson's wet from the shower water. Just when Wilson parted his lips to let House in, House ducked down to fix his teeth over the skin behind Wilson's ear. A brief flash of embarrassment flushed Wilson's face at the thought of the mark that would leave, but it felt so good that he really didn't care. Anyway, the weekend still loomed ahead, and it would fade quite a bit by Monday. Wilson tipped his head back and enjoyed the shiver that House's ministrations pushed through him.

Without warning, House shoved him back. Wilson impacted the wall with a startled, "Amph!" He scrambled for a handhold that wasn't House himself and latched onto the shower bar as soon as his fingers grazed it. The blue dildo brushed his left hip as he settled back, House's body holding him in place against the tiles. He ground his pelvis into House's abdomen and choked on his moan, thwarted by a mouthful of shower spray. House laved his shoulders with lips and tongue, a dizzying confluence of suction and teeth that traced his clavicle to his other shoulder.

The click of the lube container sent Wilson into a frenzy of lust. An evening plagued by blue balls had made him hornier than he had felt in a long time. Wilson grabbed House's hair and dragged his face up for a proper kiss. He didn't even care at this point what House intended to do to him, so long as it happened fast. He spared a thought for how much House would gloat about getting him in such a state, but it was irrelevant. House's fingers snaked along Wilson's buttocks and down into the crack, and Wilson let out a wanton moan without letting House break the kiss. He shoved his tongue into House's mouth and sucked a stuttering breath in through the meager space between their lips as House worked the tip of the lube container into him and squeezed a shot in.

Wilson bucked as the chilled lube entered him, then grasped House around the waist to tug him closer. House chuckled into his mouth, a light sound dampened by the roar of the shower. House's erection had filled out in the mean time and Wilson spread his legs just enough to guide it between. Then he rutted shamelessly against House's stomach, House's cock sandwiched between his thighs.

When House stepped back, Wilson whined in protest. The interruption didn't last. House dragged Wilson forward as well and held him flush along his front as he worked a finger inside. Wilson canted his hips to make it easier and squirmed to create a bit of friction. He was still soapy, his skin slick, and his cock slid alongside House's like a greased machine. A second finger made Wilson grunt and throw his head back, clutching House for all he was worth and hoping that they didn't overbalance. House mouthed his neck as he stretched Wilson open, scissoring his fingers gently for a few minutes until Wilson twisted to grab his wrist and yank it away. He was done preparing; he wanted more, now.

House stopped him from turning around, though, and his intentions finally became clear. Wilson let House maneuver him toward the suctioned plastic penis, unsure of letting it penetrate him. But what the hell. He wiggled around a bit and then worked himself back onto it, his arms cinched all about House's naked body, his nose buried in the sweet smell of House. It was awkward at first, but he persisted until his butt cheeks brushed the tiled wall. He stopped at that point to adjust and House took the opportunity to gently stroke Wilson's cock, his fist firm but the movements laconic. As he twisted his grip on the instroke, Wilson gave a shallow thrust.

"Oh, _fuck_!" Wilson gasped. He shoved himself back on the dildo without thinking and wrenched at House's arms, as if they weren't already pressed up against each other.

House lurched forward and managed to steady himself by grabbing the shower head. "Easy, Wilson." He sounded pleased. "I checked the packaging. That one has a little crook at the end designed especially to hit the prostate."

Wilson's hips jagged forward and back again and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Yeah," he grunted, not fully cognizant of the conversation. "Got that." He continued to work himself on the dildo, mindless only of how _fucking wonderful_ it felt while House leaned to the side to reach the shower shelf. God, he hoped House left this thing here for a month or two, stuck on the wall. Though, he might get suspicious of Wilson showering six times a day.

"Mm…Wilson…" House's voice rumbled in his ear, rich with secret promises. He shifted to mold himself along Wilson's left side, his right arm wrapped around Wilson's back, and purred, "You have no idea how hot you look right now."

"Nng." Wilson was capable of no other response right then. He raised his head and rested it on the tiles behind him, filled with the sensations of fullness inside of him and House folded around him. Warm water cascaded down their bodies, bathing Wilson's cock in heat, and he thrust into it even though it was only water. House's fingernails tickled his balls and he jerked into the contact, only to lose it. "Hmph…come on, House. Not fair."

House murmured something that communicated mirth and arousal.

Wilson opened his eyes long enough to notice that House was holding the masturbation sleeve, then he groaned in anticipation. "Yes, please. Please, House…"

House pressed the opening of the gelled contraption against Wilson's tip, just enough to drive him half mad. When House laughed, Wilson dug his fingers into House's shoulders and growled a wordless warning.

It had the desired effect, more or less. House leaned into him suddenly, plastering him back against the tiled shower wall and ramming the dildo right up into Wilson's prostate. Wilson convulsed and cried out but he couldn't move anymore to lessen the sensation. "_Oh_, fuck, oh, _fuck!_" He gasped for air, and then House slid the masturbation sleeve onto him and the only thing Wilson could hear was blood crashing against his ear drums.

Wilson inhaled sharply – he sounded like an asthmatic. There were marbles or beads or something floating free in the silicon lining, just as House had said. They rolled over the surface of his cock, firm and unpredictable and fucking amazing. House kneaded the outside of the sleeve to shift them about and Wilson squeezed the life out of House's biceps as the pleasure assaulted him from behind and in front. He wanted to yell obscenities but his lungs were too sluggish. And then House peeled himself off and backed just far enough away that Wilson had room to thrust, and that was ten times better, and Wilson lost his battle to remain collected. He couldn't stop himself from driving forward into the sleeve, and then back on the dildo, over and over, trapped between the two, helpless and overwhelmed by ripples of sheer ecstasy.

The moan that floated up over the racket of the shower turned out to be Wilson's, and he made no effort to cut it off. All he could manage to do was rest the backs of his head and shoulders against the tile, his body arched as his hips moved sharply back and forth, beyond his control. His legs felt wobbly and he only barely remained upright, his toes curled into the porcelain and his hands clawed in around the tendons of House's shoulders. The marbles in the sleeve massaged his cock, sheathed in tight heat that kept him poised right on the brink. His balls tightened and drew up and he thrust harder, faster, ramming the dildo into his prostate again and again, House's hand around the sleeve clamping down until the fire exploded in his groin.

Wilson arched violently, stuck on the balls of his feet in a slick bathtub, shuddering with his eyes snapped open and fixed on the ceiling. Waves assaulted him from out of nowhere, until he realized that he had stopped moving with the tip of the dildo nudged right into his prostate. If it didn't feel so good, he would die of agony. Wilson clenched his teeth and bared his neck, every muscle tense and flooded with bliss as his eyes drifted shut. House started stroking him with the sleeve the moment he froze and firm nubs slid all about his straining cock, drawing out fronds and bursts of electricity, a rapid fire series of waves while Wilson remained suspended, immobile, lost.

The paralysis broke and Wilson keened as he scrabbled for a handful of House's body, anything to anchor himself as he thrust wildly to bring himself to the end of it. He couldn't take any more but he couldn't stop, and he felt his release leave him in flares and bursts of sparks that engulfed his groin and left him winded.

Wilson shuddered and let out a long, sated moan as it tapered off. Then he gasped and bit his lip to endure one last aftershock. He had no idea what had happened, aside from the incredible orgasm. House was pressed up alongside him, supporting a decent amount of his weight while gripping the showerhead with whitened knuckles.

"Damn, Wilson."

"Oh…my…god." Wilson panted on the tide of endorphins, his head fuzzy, doped on afterglow.

"Hmm…I think I should be worried about you replacing me with toys."

"It's a definite possibility," Wilson acknowledged. He licked his lips and stood still with his eyes closed. "Mm. They're even dishwasher safe."

"Unlike me," House replied. "I'm not _anything_ safe."

Wilson laughed, breathless and in need of a place to sit for a second. He didn't get a chance, though. He felt House's hands running through his hair, massaging his scalp with practiced fingers. It topped off a fucking wonderful experience and Wilson rested his forehead on House's shoulder. Something nagged at the back of his mind, though. He blinked his eyes open. "House?"

"Hm?" Uh-oh. He sounded innocent.

"Tell me you're not 'conditioning' my hair."

"Hey, it's organic. You should be all over that."

Wilson groaned but stayed put. Hell, it was already in his hair…all over the place. "I hate you."

"You love me," House countered.

"Yeah, I love you," Wilson sighed. "Stupid me."

"Makes two of us."

House's words almost didn't register. Wilson felt a warm glow spread through his chest and smiled in spite of himself.

"Stop it. You're oozing sap all over me." House removed himself from Wilson's personal space and shoved him under the spray. "Wash that out. You have favors to return."

"Girl."

"Slut."

Wilson waited until House climbed out of the tub, then finished his shower. As he stepped out and reached for a towel, he glanced at the shelf and noticed a fresh bottle of his conditioner purposefully stuffed behind an econo-jar of acetaminophen.

Wilson stuck his head out the door. "Prick!"

All he heard was House's laugh from the bedroom. Yes, he decided. He had some favors to return.

--tbc


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Okay, so I'm nervous about this one because it's nothing like what I'm used to writing. I'm drawing mostly on the experience of a friend here, and a little personal experience, so if I effed it up (pun intended), I apologize. I had a really hard time keeping this IC, not sure if it worked. Please don't hate me. *puppy dog eyes* (And PS - I know I pick on Taub toward the end, but really, I like the guy.) **Please R&R!!**

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Wilson sauntered into the bedroom and then stopped. House's bed looked like a display counter at a porn shop. Since leaving Wilson in the bathroom, he had managed to open and unpackage every single item in the dirty black box and arrange them according to…what, genre? Wilson couldn't even tell, but they were definitely separated into precise piles according to some skewed Housian logic. A pile of loose batteries occupied the lid so that they wouldn't roll away and get lost in the debris. In the middle of the mother load, House sat with his bad leg stretched out straight on the bed, his other crooked, half Indian-style pose. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he pried at a battery cover on…something. Wilson had no honest clue what the hell the device was supposed to do…or where it was supposed to go. And to be truthful, that scared him a little.

House grinned as soon as he noticed Wilson standing there. "Fifty years, and I finally get a good birthday present."

Wilson scoffed. "I know I'm good, but come on. I'm sure you've gotten other memorable gifts."

"Mm." House's movements slowed and he contemplated the toy without really seeing it. His face grew somber, introspective. "I got locked out of the house once. That was actually…better than I expected."

Wilson laughed as he pulled some clean boxers from his newly apportioned dresser drawer. "What did you do? Get drunk with a bunch of townies and stay out past curfew?"

"No."

Wilson peered over his shoulder, taken aback by the bitterness in that single word.

House fidgeted with the reticent battery cover and then tossed the thing aside. His posture made him seem more naked than the lack of clothes accounted for. House drew a deep breath, rubbed his thumb across his brow, and then threw Wilson a baleful look.

"Okay." Wilson concentrated on getting his feet in his boxers. "No prying tonight. I promised." He looked back up to find House smiling sadly at him. "Unless…you _want_ to tell me?"

"I knocked the punch bowl over. At my own birthday party. I just tripped. Mom never got the stain out of the carpet, but it didn't matter; we moved a month later. New post."

Wilson's brows drew down in a V between his eyes. "How old were you?"

House shrugged and searched for something to distract himself with.

Despite his promise, Wilson stepped closer, observing the uncomfortable expression on House's face and the way he pretended that they weren't talking about anything of consequence. Since House had opened the door, Wilson decided to risk stepping through. Much softer than before, Wilson asked again, "How old were you?"

House selected the most intricate of the toys and held it up. "What do you suppose this is supposed to do? The directions didn't really say anything, except that you need one of those tiny eyeglass screwdrivers to get the battery cover off. I don't think we'll get to use it tonight." He dropped it back into the box and returned to a pointed perusal of the rest of his loot.

"House?"

House harrumphed and slumped on the bed. "Look, my dad was an ass, okay? Can we leave it at that?"

"Sure." Wilson felt a hint of hollowness, though, at the way House fought not to disclose anything, not even with his eyes. Wilson had already gathered enough information, thanks to years of drunken slip-ups, to know that John had not exactly expressed love toward his son, at least not the way that Wilson had experienced it with his own father. What the hell sort of childhood had House dealt with? Determined to wipe that poorly hidden sadness from House's face, Wilson changed the subject. "So. Any requests?" He gestured to the intimidating array of items on the bed.

House perked right up at that. "As a matter of fact…" He stretched to reach one pile in particular, which comprised the blindfold, the rope, a set of wide leather ankle/wrist cuffs with loops to thread the rope through, and it looked like the shop lady had added a gag to his purchase after all. Plus a squeaky toy in the shape of a sheep. "This for starters. I'll leave the rest to you and your revenge tactics." He grinned like an idiot. If he hadn't been sitting on the bed and gimpy, Wilson could have pictured him bouncing about the room in excitement.

Wilson accepted the items and then watched House clean up the mess, putting garbage in the box and toys in the lid. "House, can I ask you something?"

House paused to look at Wilson, gauging his intentions. Apparently, nothing in Wilson's demeanor raised a red flag, and he shrugged his permission before resuming his self-appointed task.

"Why does this…why do you like this sort of thing so much?" Wilson hefted the items in his hands. "Is it really the…the pain? Like a gating thing? Or…"

House stopped cleaning again and went mostly still on the bed. He picked at his fingers and then made a random face at the far wall. "I like trusting you. I like knowing that even if I'm helpless and I can't defend myself, you're not gonna hurt me."

"Oh." Wilson breathed out a loaded, silent acknowledgement. Of all the things House might have said, he had expected that the least. "So you trust me?"

House's face reflected a hint of snark. "Didn't I just say that?"

"Yeah, but I thought everybody lies." He paused, then shifted the focus of his previous sentence. "You think I won't, all of a sudden? Lie to you?"

"In words," House hurried to reply. "In actions, no. People can't help themselves. And this is…this is different. It's not a truth or a lie. It's just…I dunno. It's just different. It's about comfort zones, and that doesn't really have anything to do with honesty."

Wilson perched on the edge of the mattress and set the bondage items down. "Have you ever done this sort of thing with anyone else?"

House puffed his cheeks and then expelled the air with a loud pop. "Nope. Never trusted anybody enough to want to." His shoulders moved to convey his discomfort, but he added, "I know you don't always tell me the truth, and you've done things that I didn't like, things that hurt or that made me…feel useless or stupid, I guess. Or something." He shrugged, probably just as a restless excuse to move. "You can be mean. But even when you're treating me like crap or acting like I'm too stuck up, or like I should humble myself or something, it's just because you're scared I'm gonna end up hurting myself. So it's okay. And I trust you to know where to draw the line, when you _actually_ hurt me, because I don't think you could do it on purpose, just…sometimes you don't know any better."

Wilson stared at him, and something House had said years before filtered through his brain. _God doesn't limp._ He knew that his machinations over the Addisons patient had hurt House, had left him feeling betrayed. What he had never understood was why House didn't bring it up again…why he just let the whole incident fall into the murk, unaddressed. How many other times had Wilson done that – made him feel like crap without ever knowing, because House merely chalked it up to Wilson trying his hardest to help and bumbling it up?

The bed creaked as House shifted. "Okay. This isn't gonna get in the way of the sex, is it? Cuz you already got yours, and I really don't think it's fair to leave the birthday boy hangin' over here." He gestured to his semi-hard cock, resting on the comforter between his parted legs.

Wilson rolled his eyes, but he couldn't shake the gravity of what House had just told him. "You're incorrigible." He turned around and crawled up the bed until House was forced to lie back with Wilson hovering over him on all fours. "I really wish you'd told me this sooner. Like maybe a few years ago."

House scowled. "In case you haven't noticed, I don't do the candid disclosure thing all that well. And I didn't see any need to bring it up before. It's just you. I don't expect you to change just because I think you're an idiot." His eyes rolled away. "Besides. Idiocy is incurable."

Just for that, Wilson bent down and nipped the skin above House's carotid. "You can't make anything easy, can you? You just have to be difficult."

The expected playful retort didn't come. Instead, House leaned far enough back to be able to look straight at Wilson.

Wilson drew back a few inches, bewildered by the expression on House's face. "What?" He craned his neck to see if he was putting pressure on House's bad leg, but his knees were nowhere near it.

"My dad used to say that."

Wilson's eyes flew back up. His mouth worked silently as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. One thing he knew for sure: it was singularly disconcerting to be straddling House's naked body while House compared him to his dad. "Um."

If the context of their conversation bothered House as much as it did Wilson, it didn't show. "All the time. Why do I have to correct the teachers, and why can't I get along with the other kids, and why do I have to read all the time instead of playing sports, and why the piano instead of target practice. Almost everything I did, he'd say that. I got superior ratings at recitals, three age groups above my actual age, and all he wanted to know was why I couldn't put that much effort into sports instead. Or why did I have to show off in class – why couldn't I just play dumb and quit alienating people, like being smart was something to be ashamed of."

Wilson glanced nervously to the side. Should he get off? What the hell…was this just House feeling safe enough to disclose personal things to Wilson? "Is this really the time – "

"My mom tried to brush it off at dinner. She kept saying that dad only disapproved of my every waking moment because he wanted the best for me, like that's an excuse to make sure I felt worthless no matter what I did, because I should have been able to do better. Except all the better things were things I hated doing, and he just wanted me to be a pint-sized version of him."

"Okay." God…what would happen if he just casually slid off to one side? Would House get pissed off?

"_Difficult_ was just his byword for me being independent or smarter than him." House glanced away and snorted. "I hated him." His brows climbed up and he mused, "And now he's dead and it doesn't matter. Except it does."

Wilson peered down at him, worried and disturbed by this turn of events. "House?"

House's features turned resentful but small, like a wounded child who can't understand why adults couldn't protect him when he needed it. When he spoke again, Wilson wasn't sure that House was actually talking to _him_ anymore. "Why didn't she do anything about him? Why does she just keep saying that he loved me when it's obvious he didn't?"

That was too much for Wilson. He reached out to coax House's eyes back to his. "Just…don't. Don't think about it right now." In the back of his mind, he considered accosting Blythe and forcing her to confess to whatever the hell had put that look in the far reaches of House's eyes.

"Wilson – "

"Trust me. _I _love you. Okay? And you're plenty good enough for me."

House's mouth turned up in a quirky smile. "You're completely fucked up too, you know."

Wilson shrugged, relieved that _his_ House wasn't submerged behind that blue-eyed boy anymore. "What can I say? We're peas in a pod."

"Yeah." House grasped Wilson's hand and then grinned lewdly as he shoved it down between his legs. "I'm done with this sharing crap. Move it along."

Wilson pursed his lips. "You're a pervert." He squeezed House's penis, though, and rubbed slow circles with his thumb at the base.

House grunted and lifted his hips minimally. "You're the one who practically bought stock in a porn shop. I bet that gets good returns no matter what state the economy's in."

One of Wilson's eyebrows twitched. "I wouldn't doubt it. Sex cures all woes. We should have more of it." He kept his tone light, but he couldn't shake the odd feeling that House's disclosure had left him with. In an effort to shake it of, Wilson wrapped his fingers properly around House's cock and stroked a few times.

"Mm-hm." House's lids drifted halfway closed and he canted his hips to press his growing erection into Wilson's palm.

Wilson leaned forward to work his mouth over House's chest. Against House's skin, he mumbled, "By the way: you're going to pay for leaving me alone in a room with an armful of sex toys, a hard-on, and your mom."

House snorted and struggled to meet Wilson's gaze without lifting his head. "I sure hope so."

Without looking, Wilson reached for the pile of accoutrements and pawed around until he found the cuffs. House's eyes followed them and he held his wrists out so that Wilson could put them on. They were perhaps four inches wide, buckled, with a series of metal eyelets extending all the way around. This time, no bruising to draw unwanted attention at work. Wilson started to thumb the tongue into the buckle hole on the strap, but House made an exasperated sound and twittered Wilson's hands out of the way. He tightened it one more notch and then held it out to Wilson to finish.

Wilson held his forearm and regarded the cuff somberly. "Are you _trying_ to cut off the circulation?"

"Oh, please. It's not that tight, you wuss." He demonstrated by slipping his index finger under the cuff. "See? Finger rule. It also applies to dog collars."

"Dog collars?" Wilson shot him a wary look.

House blinked at the expression on Wilson's face. "On _dogs_, you idiot! Actual dog collars!"

Wilson gave him a dubious look but let it be, and made sure that the other cuff matched. Then he moved down the bed and attached the ankle cuffs. "If you get tingly, let me know. I'll loosen them. You could pinch a nerve or something if you're not careful."

"Yes, doctor."

Wilson scowled and threw a sock at him, which House peeled off his face and flung onto the floor, smiling the whole time. After surveying his handiwork, Wilson settled back on his haunches. "Okay, I get most of this, but what's up with the squeaky sheep?"

House rolled onto his side and plucked the comparatively innocuous sheep from the pile of kinkiness. "Safe word." He held it up and squeezed it to demonstrate. It sounded like one of Hector's dog toys.

"Safe word?" Wilson had put his hands on his hips before he realized how ridiculous he would look, kneeling in boxer shorts on the bed in the superman pose. He also wondered how much the porn shop girl had taken him for, since he probably could have bought an _actual_ dog toy for half the price.

From House's look, Wilson had proven once again that he was a moron. "Leaving aside the fact that we don't actually have a safe word, even though we should, I'm gonna be gagged. How the hell am I supposed to say it?" He squeaked the sheep again.

Wilson's eyes flicked to the side and back. "Oh. Right." He shifted to more comfortably rest on his ankles.

House lowered his arm and discarded the sheep for now. "Are you okay with this?"

"Yeah! I mean, it's a little extreme…for me, I guess. But if you like doing it, then I'm fine with trying it out." He held up a hand as if warding off any ideas that House might have. "You don't expect us to switch off, do you?"

"Only if you want to. I didn't think you would, so it's not a big deal. You nearly had an anxiety attack on the piano bench." He shrugged. "At first, anyway."

Wilson nodded, relieved. "Okay, good." He squirmed inside his own skin for a second, then abruptly shimmied out of his boxers. Really, why the hell had he bothered putting them on in the first place? House laughed as Wilson folded them neatly and set them aside before he climbed forward to straddle House. House angled his torso to meet Wilson halfway for a kiss and Wilson shoved him back down. They traded languid non-verbal barbs with teeth and tongues until Wilson decided that if he was going to do this, then he was going to do it right. He fumbled blindly for the pile of House's choice accessories and came away with the blindfold. When he pulled back, House lifted his head to follow, his eyes loosely shut. Wilson had the blindfold in place in no time flat. House started but held still long enough for Wilson to tie it in place, then grinned.

There was something thrilling about being permitted to truss House up until he was at Wilson's mercy. Wilson grabbed the rope next and smiled fondly to find that House had already cut it into usable sections. Sometimes, it paid to fall for a genius. He sat there on House's stomach, unmoving while House caressed his thighs, exploring Wilson's body in the absence of sight. He appeared to be enjoying himself, especially when he slid a hand down Wilson's belly and over his cock. Wilson watched House's fingers move, tracing the firm line of his penis and then weighing it in his hand, soft and warm rather than aching at the moment. There was actually nothing sexual about the tactile study. It left some tingles in Wilson's groin, but it seemed more tender than anything else, the way House gently ran his hands over the familiar planes of Wilson's body, petting him, drawing an unusual brand of comfort from his presence.

Eventually, Wilson folded forward and stretched himself out along House's body. House's hands ringed his waist instead and tripped up his spine to tangle in his hair. Their lips met and Wilson took the dominant roll, working his tongue into House's mouth as soon as House opened it. A thin ring of stubble met Wilson's lips where he suctioned them over House's; he increased the pressure just to feel it. House grunted softly into the kiss and splayed his hands along Wilson's back, above his kidneys. The supple leather of the cuffs contrasted with House's scratchy palms, rough on account of his being a doctor and washing them so often. Wilson had long since given up on trying to get him to moisturize them in the mornings. The cool metal rings left icy patches on Wilson's bare back.

Wilson broke away with a nip and a playful lick on the end of House's nose, then grasped his wrists. Before House could react, he twisted them up and pressed them into the mattress over House's head. House whimpered and arched just enough that Wilson noticed, his hips lifting between Wilson's thighs. He tugged against Wilson's hands and then bit his lip when Wilson lent more weight to holding him in place. Wilson watched his respirations speed up, maybe hoping to find some clue in the way House moved when he couldn't see or react to Wilson's expressions. A clue to what, he didn't know; but he searched anyway.

In the silence, House started to get antsy, though he didn't say so out loud. Wilson could feel his aroused shifting turn to an uneasy squirm, and he realized that he had sat staring for too long. "You doing alright?"

House turned his head toward Wilson, though he couldn't see him. "Yeah. Keep going." He sounded relieved, and his body stilled for the most part. It must have been the silence that bothered him; without sight, hearing was the only investigative sense left to him. Touch didn't seem to reassure him, considering that Wilson was straddling him, albeit with the full length of his body, and holding House down; House couldn't exactly miss feeling his presence there.

Wilson adjusted his grip on House's wrists and flexed his body, elongating on top of House like a cat in the sun. House shuddered as every texture of Wilson's front undulated over him, their cocks sliding along side each other with aching slowness. Despite having already tasted release in the shower, Wilson was hard. He could last a while like this, if need be, but he could definitely feel it, the warmth pooling in his abdomen, the glow encompassing his cock and balls, the heat radiating out to his inner thighs. House bucked up against him and threw his head back, and Wilson bent to press his mouth in the hollow of House's throat. He couldn't stop himself from starting a languid rhythm with his hips, not proper thrusts but gentle curls of his abdomen to create the lightest friction.

A few seconds after that, House spread his legs farther and pulled his left one up, heel pressed into the mattress. He fought to increase the frequency and pressure of Wilson's thrusts, but Wilson merely placed his knees and raised his hips up too far for House to reach him. This engendered a frustrated and yet lustful groan, and Wilson leaned in for a kiss. House needed an extra second to respond since he hadn't known it was coming, and then his tongue surged into Wilson's mouth, a testament to his highly aroused state. As if the smear of Cowper's fluid between them weren't enough.

Wilson broke away and crossed House's wrists so that he could free up one hand without letting him go. It was a token show of dominance since House could have easily thrown him off, but it plastered a grin onto House's face just the same. Wilson lowered his torso to bring their groins flush again, and resumed his easy rocking. House didn't thrust back this time, but he raised his pelvis to increase the stimulation and a low rumble percolated in the back of his throat, behind the happy smile.

Wilson stared at him as he shook a length of rope free, because it actually _was_ a happy smile. No pain, no self-consciousness, no worries, no mangled dinner with his slightly homophobic mom to mar it. Just him, here with Wilson, safe and carefree. Wilson had been waiting months, no years, to see that. For a long time, he had thought that the infarction was what drove such a thing from House's bag of common facial expressions. But now that Wilson saw it, he realized that such a thing had _never_ been there, never within House's grasp, not in the fifteen years that Wilson had known him, and probably not before then either. That was when it hit him; Wilson hadn't given House a box full of kinky toys – that wasn't what House had meant by calling it the first good present he'd ever gotten. Wilson had given him _this_. A chance to trust another human being. And for once, House had decided that taking it was worth the risk.

Wilson had stopped moving the moment his epiphany hit. House-brand intuitive leaps of logic were apparently contagious; he was having them more often than ever. Not that he would ever share his revelation; House would either mock him for being a doe-eyed sap, or retreat back to his reticent, cantankerous, miserable shell.

As if House could read his thoughts, he remarked, "I don't actually like being alone."

Wilson shifted about until his knees rested on the outside of House's hips and he could sit up just a fraction without losing contact down below. "Maybe not all the time, but it's like you go out of your way to be lonely." He wasn't sure about the logic of saying that now, but since House started it, he figured that it was okay to be frank. It was strange, though, since he continued to slowly circle his hips, the underside of his cock grazing House's sparse abdominal hair while House's leaking erection settled between Wilson's buttocks.

"It's safer," House gasped. He arched his neck and wriggled beneath Wilson's weight while Wilson threaded the rope through the metal eyelets on his wrist cuffs. "You think – _nnng_ – you say I like to be miserable. I screw up every good thing that happens to me. You never stop and…a-hhhhnd…think that…that maybe…" He trailed off with a whimper, his lips pressed into a firm line.

When House failed to finish his thought, Wilson angled his hips and clamped his glutes down on House's cock. House's body tensed as he bit a moan back to a thin whine. Quietly, Wilson asked "Maybe what?"

House changed the topic, but not the entire subject. His voice was strained and his words too fast, as if he wanted to get the confession over with. "It was like when Stacy came back, you yelled at me because she was married, and then you yelled at me when I told her to go back with Mark because I couldn't make her happy and he could. I couldn't do anything right. No matter what, even when I try to be selfless, it's wrong."

By then, Wilson had threaded the rope through all of the rings and was tying House's wrists tightly together, looping the extra length over the cuffs just for added security. His hands were on autopilot, though, because his brain was befuddled by House bringing this up now, in the middle of fulfilling a bondage fantasy. Was this part of the game? Should Wilson participate, or did House just need a soliloquy to fill the emptiness behind the blindfold?

House's breathing turned ragged. "Wilson?"

"It's okay," Wilson assured him. "I'm still here. I'm just thinking." Apparently, he _was _supposed to participate, though he had no idea what House wanted from him.

"I never wanted to tell you things. I was afraid you'd just use them against me, prove what a fuck up I am, and how I make myself miserable and how I'm a jerk and a misanthrope. Cuddy actually called me a misanthrope. She said she didn't want me bringing misery to Rachel's naming ceremony, like I couldn't have possibly brought anything else."

Wilson glanced away, disconcerted, but he had to say something; House expected him to play his part. "She actually said that?"

House nodded, and then tugged at his bound wrists. It seemed like encouragement to keep going, so Wilson swallowed his unease and proceeded to tie his wrists to the headboard. As soon as House seemed satisfied that Wilson wasn't ending the encounter, he resumed talking. "You say it too, you just make it sound like you're being nice, like it's a favor to have you point it out. I don't want to be miserable, Wilson."

"I never thought – "

"You've said it. I like being in pain, I like taking pills, I like – "

"House, _no_!"

House's chest heaved but he stopped talking, and that actually worried Wilson. At this point, he wanted to stop, he really did, but he couldn't help feeling that House would interpret it as a form of rejection. Maybe being in this position, not being able to see Wilson, being forced into submission, voluntarily or not – maybe it helped him say these things. Perhaps it was easier when he couldn't run away or see Wilson's face, or be tempted into silence for fear of feeling embarrassed when Wilson gave him a strange look.

"Why are you only bringing this up now? Do you think that admitting that someone hurt your feelings is…is weak?"

"If I'm not weak, I'm not vulnerable, and if I'm not vulnerable, nobody can hurt me."

That was not what Wilson expected, though he had pegged that years ago; he just never thought that House was doing it consciously. "House, you can't just keep driving people away. You'll end up alone."

"I'd rather be alone than…"

Wilson was glad, at that point, that House couldn't see him; he couldn't stop himself from tearing up. "Than what? Vulnerable?"

It was only a whisper, but it struck Wilson in the solar plexus like a sledgehammer. "Than let you hurt me anymore."

Wilson choked back every sound that wanted to escape him. The little blue-eyed boy was back, the one Blythe had dragged out in the middle of the restaurant. Wilson had no idea what was happening right now, he only knew that it was big, that he couldn't screw it up. "Then _talk_ to me," Wilson pled. "You don't tell me when things are wrong, you just evade and pretend to get over it. I can't read your mind."

"You think I'm a drug addict. You think it makes sense for everybody to hate me cuz I deserve it."

Oh, god. Oh, god – House was crying.

"You want to make me better all the time because I'm not good enough yet, because I don't do things the way you think I should, because – "

"I want you to be happy! You think I don't notice that you're not?"

House's voice broke and he had to fight to get words past the hiccups and the wet. "I don't want to be happy, I can't be happy – I just want somebody to think I'm okay!"

No, no, no… "No, House – no! I don't want – I – " Wilson couldn't think of something to say that House might believe. "You're not inadequate, and you're _definitely_ not a fuck up! Why would you think that?"

House struggled to breath, his nose and sinuses obviously clogged. "You're ashamed of me – don't say you're not. Every time somebody talks about us being friends, you look down and make a face. I embarrass you. I don't know why you stick around – you don't like people to know you choose to hang out with me, much less that you're sleeping with me."

"Why are you doing this?" Wilson couldn't keep the desperation or the hitch from his voice. Everything was made worse by the fact that they were still in a sexual situation, and even if Wilson had gone flaccid, he could feel damn well that House hadn't. It was, what, a screwed up form of catharsis? House was baring his soul to him, and all he wanted to do was run screaming from the room.

"I wanna be safe. Wilson, please."

Wilson cupped House's face without thinking, his thumbs dipping into saline-frosted stubble. "You _are_ safe. I'm not going to hurt you."

House's breathing caught several times before he managed to reply, "What if you're wrong?"

In a near panic, Wilson's eyes darted around until they encountered the stupid squeaky sheep. He grabbed it and squeezed it right next to House's ear. House flinched, but Wilson kept one hand latched around the back of his head. "Then you tell me, and I'll stop, and you'll be safe again." He knew that House wasn't talking about this situation, where they were naked and House couldn't escape even if he wanted to, but metaphors were all Wilson had right now. "I don't know what else to say, House. I don't know where any of this is coming from!"

"'m sorry," House babbled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, don't be mad."

Wilson shook his head, though House couldn't see it. "Don't be sorry," he shot back, incredulous. "You have nothing to apologize for – you didn't do anything wrong."

"I made you mad."

"No – no, I'm not mad. I'm…disturbed. I'm not mad." Fuck, what the hell was going on?

"You don't…I'm sorry, Wilson." House had gotten his voice mostly under control, but his breath still stuttered. "You don't have to do this. I'll stop – we can stop if you're not comfortable."

Wilson only barely kept himself from tipping over into a full-fledged anxiety attack. "You're reassuring me? This…this is a _game_?"

"N-no," House replied. He sounded scared, but Wilson's voice had been sharp by the end of his sentence. He shook his head and then whispered, mostly to himself, "You think I'm sick. You think I'm a freak."

Even though he probably shouldn't respond to that, Wilson offered, "I think you have issues, but you're not a freak. I think…you're confused." He paused, then added, "Maybe we _should_ stop. This isn't healthy."

That did it. House just broke down and sagged back into the bed with Wilson sitting on him, like that was the worst thing Wilson could have said, worse than anything else that had ever come out of Wilson's mouth. And all Wilson could think was that he had just proven that House _wasn't_ safe with him, that he had gone and done exactly what House had feared he would do if he tried to share. Wilson had hurt him.

Wilson couldn't even begin to unravel the sorts of issues that must lurk beneath the surface of this…this thing they were doing, but he couldn't stand to see House like this, trusting him for once and then having it thrown back in his face just because Wilson didn't understand.

"Nonono." Wilson cupped House's face again and tried to hide how much this affected him, how scared and confused he was, and how much he just wanted it to end. Wilson pressed their foreheads together and soothed, "Stop, no, I didn't mean it, please, don't. It's okay." He started laying kisses all along House's cheeks. He didn't know what else to do.

When he approached House's mouth, House turned into him and Wilson kissed him properly just to stem any further misunderstandings. House needed this for some reason; Wilson had reached the point where no matter how awkward it felt, he couldn't say no. He just wanted to make House feel better, to fix whatever he had just done to him, to reassure him somehow.

Wilson didn't realize he was speaking until he heard his own voice in his ears. "I'm sorry I messed it up, you were smiling and I made you cry. I'm so sorry." And he was moving again too, rolling his hips fractionally while House quieted and gave in to Wilson's soft ministrations. It freaked him out, how House seemed so turned on by this, by having a spectacular breakdown. And now, it seemed like…

Wilson started. It seemed like positive reinforcement. Like Wilson was rewarding him for revealing a weakness.

Okay, fine. Wilson could work with that, and he threw himself into the pursuit.

Wilson arranged himself along House's left side, draping his left leg over House's so that his knee nudged House's groin, Wilson's soft cock resting just above House's hip. He stroked his fingers down House's chest, weaving the tips of his fingernails through the sparse hair he encountered, then bent to fix his mouth over House's left nipple. He held it between his teeth and gently pulled while he suckled, reveling in House's escalating grunts and choked whimpers. With his mouth occupied, Wilson ran his hand down between House's legs and rolled his balls before grasping House's cock and running his fist from base to tip, just once.

House moaned with his lips pressed tightly together, raising his hips to try to follow Wilson's hand as it left him. He fell back to the mattress with a huff and then craned his neck to nose at the top of Wilson's head. Wilson took the hint and pressed their lips together. A small stirring in his groin took him by surprise. Wilson wasn't sure if he was comfortable enough right now to just switch back over into an erotic mode, but nothing about this evening was normal. Besides, House wanted this. It didn't make sense to Wilson, but a lot of what House did confused him.

Wilson broke off and gathered the rest of the rope before clambering to the foot of the bed. He tied House's ankles to the posts on the footboard, leaving some give in the right so that House could move it around if need be. Wilson ran his hands up House's legs, drinking in the way House's entire torso heaved as he drew breath. He avoided the scar out of habit and paused just below House's groin. After settling down with his elbows supporting his weight on either side of House's hips, Wilson craned his neck to tongue House's cock. House's legs jerked as Wilson's mouth took him by surprise, but he couldn't go anywhere. Wilson noticed, though, how the second House met resistance from the ankle cuffs, his pelvis twitched and he breathed harder.

Wilson shifted to bear his weight on his left arm so that he could scoop his right under House's good leg, until House's thigh rested on Wilson's shoulder and the binding on his foot wouldn't let him lift his leg any farther. Wilson ducked his head and ran his mouth along the crease of House's leg, then took a ball into his mouth and rolled it along his tongue.

House's spine curved off the bed, his arms straining against his bonds, muscles taut. "Oh…fuck," House gasped. From his voice, Wilson could have thought him gazing into heaven. His hands curled into fists and he tugged against the cuffs as if he wanted to better feel the way they held him in place. The dried tear tracts on his face looked surreal.

Wilson let the testicle drop from his mouth and concentrated on suckling the patch of skin just between House's balls and the base of his penis. There was too much warmth pooling in Wilson's groin but he tried valiantly to ignore it for now. House couldn't stop himself from bucking, but between Wilson's left armpit holding down his right hip, and his other leg trapped on Wilson's shoulder, the movement held no real force.

With a parting nip to the sweet spot just below House's cockhead, Wilson slid his arm free and climbed up over House again. He propped himself up on one arm and brought their groins flush again, thrusting gently. House moaned and yanked against the cuffs again.

"House?"

"Hmmmmm…?"

"Is this still…do you still want the gag?"

House gave a vigorous nod, biting his lip as he canted his hips to meet Wilson's shallow thrusts.

Uncertainty plagued Wilson, but he couldn't help thinking with a bit of relief that at least House wouldn't be able to say anything else until they were finished. He tapped the corner of House's mouth and then stuck the ball in when he opened up. The strap hooked over House's ears and he lifted his head so that Wilson could secure it.

With a parting nip to House's earlobe, Wilson shoved the squeaky toy into House's hand, told him to squeeze it once if everything was okay, and then sat up. This was insane, and Wilson knew it. He wasn't into anything like this, and he didn't understand it in the slightest. The fact that House wanted it like this, after he'd just sobbed about the way Wilson treated him…

Wilson shook himself. He didn't want to screw this up again, so as any good doctor learned early on, he compartmentalized. House was an adult, he was lucid, he was – Wilson glanced between House's legs – dripping with anticipation. Literally. If he wanted to stop, he could squeeze the sheep.

They would talk later. Right now, House changed moods the way other people changed out pennies. He wasn't upset anymore. Or at least, Wilson didn't think so. He could never be sure with House.

Wilson peered over the side of the bed, into the box lid. He figured he should probably use something familiar, as much as these things could be familiar to a person who had never used one. House could no doubt explain all of their myriad uses to him, but he didn't want to hand House that sort of ammunition for later mocking sessions – sessions that might be in public. Wilson stretched over the side of the bed and snagged the vibrating cock ring that House had tried to taunt him with earlier.

Wilson laid his hand on House's sternum, ignoring the startled grunt that slipped out around the gag at the unexpected touch. "You _will_ actually squeak if I'm hurting you. Right?"

House was probably rolling his eyes behind the blindfold, but he nodded impatiently.

"Because if you try to pull some macho crap, I'm _seriously_ going to hurt you later."

House huffed in amusement and nodded again.

"It's not weak to say you want me to stop."

More nodding, irritated now.

"I mean it."

House groaned and started squeaking.

"You're pained by my caring, aren't you."

House's nod practically oozed snark.

Wilson sighed, but it made him smile. "Fine. Hold still." He moved his hand down over House's abdomen to hold his lower body in place. Just for kicks, he leaned down and sucked House's tip into his mouth. House exhaled vocally and Wilson thanked his foresight in holding House down, because he tried to thrust into Wilson's mouth; it was probably involuntary. Wilson tightened his lips about the sweet spot and let his teeth graze the edge of House's foreskin. A startled cry escaped House's lips and he shivered with the effort to keep his hips flat on the bed. Wilson laughed, which further teased House, and then drew away before the bitter taste of precome made him gag.

When Wilson slid the cock ring down over House's erection, House's respirations picked up and turned erratic. He threw his head back and pulled both of his legs up as far as the ankle cuffs allowed, which was only a few inches. Then he flexed his spine until only his buttocks and his shoulders touched the mattress, and let out such a decadent moan that Wilson grabbed himself without even thinking. Wilson gave his own cock a few swift tugs, and then adjusted the cock ring so that it fit snuggly at the base of House's penis.

"Squeak if you're still okay."

House twitched and grumbled loudly, if incoherently, before he squeaked.

"You don't have to be rude about it."

House snorted and bucked to signal his desire for Wilson to shut up and get on with it. That reassured Wilson to a large extent and he straddled House again, their cocks aligned, Wilson's perineum and the undersides of his balls resting on top of a bullet on the cock ring. It was cool against his skin and strange, but not unpleasant. He reached around and felt for the on button, then pressed it.

In a lot of instances, House was right. Wilson was a moron. This was one of those instances.

Wilson was totally unprepared to face the consequences of sitting on a vibrating bullet, and he jumped as it buzzed all through his groin on what had to be the highest setting. "Holymotherfucking - !" He shot to his hands and knees, his eyes wide and shocked.

House writhed and gasped out rapid, short cries that almost sounded like yelps, if yelps signaled pleasure. His body arched and he pulled on every restraint as the cock ring pretty much tortured him by driving him to the brink in three seconds flat and then preventing orgasm. Wilson fumbled to hit the button while House tried and failed to hold still, and then finally, the buzzing stopped. House flopped back to the mattress and panted, sweat pooling in his clavicles. Then he huffed some sort of laugh and gave the sheep a pitifully weak squeeze.

Wilson smiled and expelled an amused breath. "Better late than never?"

House nodded. Somehow, he grinned around the gag.

"A lower setting, then," Wilson said. It should have been funny, him craning his neck with his nose an inch away from the throbbing vein on House's cock, intent on reading the label on a sex toy. He thumbed a switch with one of those triangular volume-type strips beside it, figuring it had to reduce the frequency, then turned it back on. House twitched and gave a low murmur of approval, as if the vibrations reached his vocal cords too.

Wilson got between House's legs this time and reached for the lube on the nightstand. Even though it had scared the crap out of him, sitting on the vibrating bullet had stimulated him. He could have held off, maybe focused on House and finished himself off in the bathroom later, but now his predicament was urgent again. His brain fuzzed out a little bit while he fisted House's erection and treated him to a few lazy strokes, painfully aware of his own slick cock begging for attention. Then he left off and snapped the lube open.

House relaxed back onto the bed as much as he could with the cock ring drawing random sounds and twitches from him. Wilson's first finger slid in easily and he added a second right away, crooking them to tickle House's prostate. House canted his hips and rocked back onto Wilson's fingers, his head pressed hard into the sheets. Eager was hardly an apt description for the way House moved; he was practically pleading for more, whimpering and moaning desperately past hitched breaths, his nostrils flared. His motions turned into proper thrusts even though he had nothing to thrust into; the cock ring was doing that to him.

After squeezing out more lube, Wilson pushed in a third finger and pumped them at a fast tempo, wondering just how long the cock ring could hold House on the near side of bliss. It seemed impossible for it to prevent orgasm for long, but House had taken extra Vicodin during dinner. Wilson knew from experience that even if House was horny as hell and frantic, it could take a while to pitch him over the edge when he had enough of the opiates swimming in his system. As if to prove this, House tensed and choked back another moan, only to cry out in exasperation and writhe back on Wilson's fingers a moment later.

Wilson pulled his fingers out and wiped the leftover lube on himself, his face screwed up in an effort not to come. Listening to House in the throes of pleasure often had that effect on him. Wilson added some fresh lube, hissing because he didn't warm it up first, and then he scrambled forward to cover House's body. House immediately buried his face against Wilson's neck as Wilson settled his weight. The cock ring tickled Wilson's abdomen but he ignored it; he was too intent on doing something about the ache in his groin. He tilted to the right just enough to reach down and guide his penis to House's opening, then he angled his hips and pressed gradually inside.

House squirmed in an effort to lift his hips and make it easier. Wilson pressed his palms into the mattress near House's shoulders so that he could lift his upper body, thereby changing the angle, and House shoved himself back without warning. Wilson stopped himself from ramming forward, just barely, and then shut his eyes while he counted to ten, envisioning resections and blood and that one time he accidentally saw Doctor Taub naked in the locker room showers, scrubbing surgical grime from his body. Shudder.

House circled his hips and let out a ragged moan, and Wilson granted him some movement. He went slow at first, propped on an elbow and a hand, his toes digging into the sheets while he thrust, focused on not coming right away from the incredible heat and the texture of House's body surrounding his cock. His hair fell into his eyes and he realized that he was dripping sweat. A few drops fell to splatter on House's neck, joining the beads that already migrated into the hollows of his throat and collar bones. The only sounds in the room were their uneven breathing and the gentle squeaking of the mattress. House had gone still for him, though his limbs remained rigid and he couldn't stop the soft, pleasurable noises that Wilson's treatment drew from his throat. Wilson glanced up to make sure that he hadn't accidentally dropped the sheep, and then he let his weight fall onto House's body.

House reared up beneath him, grunts and words stuck behind his tongue. Wilson molded them together and pressed his mouth to House's carotid as he picked up the pace, his arms enfolding House's shoulders. On every thrust, Wilson let out a low, breathy exclamation too short to be a moan. He could feel the vibrations in House's larynx as he vocalized his enjoyment, which spurred Wilson to thrust harder. He bit the juncture between House's neck and shoulder and pumped his hips sharply enough to make the headboard tap the wall, moaning now around the skin in his mouth. House's cries rose in pitch and then fell away as he simply gasped for air, and Wilson worked his hips faster, his stomach cramping as he curled, over and over, hurtling them both forward at an inexorable pace.

A minute later, House gave a full body shudder and then convulsed beneath him. He wrenched at the restraints and let out a strangled cry, then shoved up against Wilson. Wilson hardly felt the ejaculate shoot up between them because there was so much heat and sweat there already. The rippling of House's rectal muscles drove him to further distraction, and Wilson clawed at him as he too went rigid, his body seared until he literally saw white. He heard himself exhale, an explosive sound tinged with an elongated, helpless grunt, and then he sucked air in through his nose and sobbed into House's shoulder as he plunged into House's body again and again, as quickly as he could, emptying himself for the second time that night, consumed by the heady confluence of ecstasy and House.

As the last wave ebbed, Wilson ground to a halt and gasped for air, sprawled over House like a wet rag. The cock ring buzzed against his navel and it was all Wilson could do to reach down and turn it off. The entire room smelled of sex and perspiration, and Wilson wrinkled his nose. It wasn't enough to entice him to move, though, and House just laid there underneath him, overcome and boneless. Even though he was still winded, Wilson unfastened House's gag, and then pulled it and the blindfold off. House licked his lips and hummed in satisfaction without opening his eyes.

This was not the sort of evening that Wilson had envisioned, but he rested his mouth near House's ear and murmured, "Happy birthday," anyway.

"Yeah." House sucked in a few droughts of cool air. "Thank you."

He sounded so grateful that Wilson lifted his head despite his exhaustion, puzzled. "For what?"

"For not freaking out and stopping." House still hadn't opened his eyes.

Wilson studied his face for a second and then demanded, "Did you plan this?"

"No." House sounded surprised. "I just couldn't stop thinking…about anything…and I felt like…you felt…right."

That didn't make much sense, but Wilson let it go for now. He was too muzzy to have a deep conversation right now. "You do realize we have to talk about this, right?"

House shook his head, his eyes still stubbornly closed. "No we don't."

"House."

"Wilson."

"We _have_ to talk about it. You scared the crap out of me."

"_I'm_ not going to talk about it. _You _can talk about it all you want. I'll even pretend I'm listening."

Wilson glanced away for a second and then let a hint of concern enter his tone. "Is this going to happen again?"

Silence.

"House?"

"I don't know. I didn't mean for this…I don't know." He sounded defeated.

Wilson hesitated and then lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "This is what you were too embarrassed to tell me. Isn't it."

He knew the second House took a deep breath that he was about to get angry. "You have no idea what you're talking about, Wilson. Just shut up."

"Okay." Wilson nodded and levered himself off so that he could unfasten the cuffs. "I don't want to fight."

House finally opened his eyes, following Wilson's movements in silence. Once Wilson had released his arms and turned his back to go after the ankle cuffs, House offered, "I don't know what happened either. But I feel better."

Wilson sucked his lips in between his teeth and threw a worried look over his shoulder. House wouldn't meet his gaze; he had taken the cock ring off and was intent on turning it over in his hands. "That's good, then. It's okay to feel better."

"I know." From his tone, though, he didn't believe it. As if he needed an affirmation, House asked, "Do you really think I'm a freak for it?"

"No." Wilson didn't need to think about that one at all. He finished unbuckling the ankle cuffs and then sat back on his heels to regard House. "No, I think you have…things…that you need to work through. But you're not a freak. You're just…you."

House looked up long enough to give him a sad smile. "You're a polite twit."

Wilson rolled his eyes, though he wasn't comfortable with where they had ended up. "Thanks. Can I get that on a coffee mug?"

"Wilson?"

Wilson looked at him again, drawn to the soft, nervous edge that lingered in House's voice. "Yeah?"

"I mean it. Thank you."

Wilson shifted on his haunches and then nodded. "You're welcome."

--tbc


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning found them sprawled out on the couch in House's living room, enjoying the dawn of a glorious Saturday, complete with donuts…which House had whined about until Wilson consented to go out and buy them. Wilson refrained from seconds and lounged back on his side of the couch, his fingers laced around a mug of coffee resting over his navel. House had the donut box on his lap and the TV remote in his right hand. It was only seven in the morning.

Wilson tried not to be obvious about the glances he tossed in House's direction every few seconds, but House seemed preoccupied enough that he wouldn't even notice if Wilson outright stared at him. Instead of bringing up the strangeness of the previous night, Wilson asked, "Didn't you have an appointment to see Ngyen last week?"

House glanced over in the middle of biting into a custard-filled, chocolate-covered lump of saturated fat. Around a mouthful of said delicacy, he replied, "Yeah," and then turned back to the Cartoon Network.

Wilson rolled his eyes and spoke as if to a seven year old. "And how was your visit to the doctor's office, Greg? Did you get a lollipop?"

"Indeed I did, _James_," House replied without looking away from Tom and Jerry. "And then I fellated it in front of the receptionist."

Wilson laughed in spite of himself. "You're disturbed." Then he sobered. "Seriously. How did it go?"

"Fine."

Wilson's radar perked up at that, despite the early hour. He turned his head without lifting it off the back of the couch to encounter House's sullen profile on the next cushion. "Gee. You're so convincing, I don't know why I ever doubt your complete, unfettered honesty."

House threw him a glare that pointedly lacked amusement before digging about in the donut box for a fresh artery-clogging morsel. "He says it's only been four weeks."

Wilson had expected House to be peeved at whatever the pain specialist said, but he didn't expect that level of bitterness to suffuse his words. "So…he wants you to stick with it for another month or something?"

"Yeah," House snapped, waspish as Wilson had not heard since the Tritter fiasco, when he had detoxed without the benefit of rehab or nausea meds.

Wilson looked away, then risked asking, "Is it worse than you've let on?"

"I'm handling it. Stop worrying."

"What's your baseline on his regimen?" When no answer was forthcoming, Wilson sat up and turned to face House, his leg drawn up on the couch in front of him. "It was a four before you started the new plan. How much worse is it now?"

"Wilson…" House made a frustrated sound and mashed his knuckles into his forehead. He accidentally left sprinkles behind in his eyebrows. "Look, just…just stop, alright?"

Wilson looked down at his coffee and nodded, disappointed. "Okay. Fine. You're handling it."

House rolled his eyes and flopped back on the couch. "You're gonna pout now."

"I'm not pouting."

"Your pouty-lip is sticking out. How is that _not_ pouting?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and then made doubly certain that his lips were evenly placed. "I don't have a pouty-lip."

"What do you call this then?" House reached across the couch and blubbed Wilson's bottom lip with his index finger.

Wilson mastered the death glare in thirty seconds flat and turned it on House.

"Hm." House drew back and engrossed himself with the donuts, which Wilson mistakenly assumed marked an end to the conversation. That was, until House picked up two cream filled custards and pinched them together like a big pair of chocolate-covered lips. "Wilson! Don't sulk, Wilson!" House tipped over on the couch to rest his head in Wilson's lap, obscenely close to his flannel-clad crotch, and stuck the donut lips in Wilson's face. "Eat me!"

Wilson bit his lip and screwed his face up to hide his reluctant smile, which of course merely spurred House on.

"And if you ask really, really nice, Greggy-pums will smear us all over your funnables and lick us off. Would you like that? Would little Jimmy like that?"

Wilson relented. How could he not? His cock was about a millimeter away from poking House in the ear. "_Big_ Jimmy would certainly like that. And you're disgusting, by the way."

House pulled the donuts back, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Is that a no to the cock custard?"

"I didn't say I was any better."

House grinned – evil was made of that sort of grin – and heaved himself upright again, his hands occupied with donuts. "I should do sit-ups more often," he mumbled when he had to lift a leg to counterbalance himself halfway up.

Wilson shoved him helpfully between the shoulder blades and pointed out, "I _do _know what you're doing."

House donned his innocent face. "Planning to squeeze donut innards all over your dick and then indulge my oral fixation?"

Wilson bobbled his head in the affirmative but added, "Clever deflection strategy. You can suck my concern out through my urethra."

"Well, it _is_ closer to your brain than your nose, and I won't need a bendy straw and a crochet hook."

"You – " Hm. Wilson had thought that his _House-said-what?_ tick disappeared months ago. "Oh…kay?"

House scooted to the edge of the couch and shot him a smug look. "Mummies."

Right. Mummies. It all made sense now. "Whatever. I'm not gonna drop it. You know that, right?"

House pursed his lips and suppressed a sigh. "All of a sudden, I think I'm losing my appetite."

Wilson sat forward too and rested his elbows on his knees. "Look. You can either tell me about the appointment, or you can discuss last night. Frankly, you're really starting to worry me."

"Oh, for – " House dropped the donuts back into the box and tilted his head sideways to glare at Wilson. "Fine. I felt like crap last night because my mother decided to wax poetic about my non-biologic dad, and then you said something stupid, and I decided what the hell. I'll talk. You're always harping on me to do that psycho-babble sharing crap anyway."

"You…cried, House. You had a meltdown, and then you got off on it."

House scowled. "Knock it the fuck off with the Mister Rogers tone. I'm not falling apart."

"House – "

"I don't know what happened," he insisted. "I don't know, Wilson. I was okay, and I felt safe, and it was…weird."

"Feeling safe was weird?"

"You don't get it." The hopelessness in his tone made Wilson grasp his knee, even though he knew that the gesture wouldn't go over well. House endured his comfort for maybe three heartbeats, and then shoved his hand off.

"Then explain it to me."

"It's just things, Wilson."

Wilson decided to try a different tack, something perhaps more direct. "How old were you when you knocked over the punch bowl?"

House gouged his knuckles into his forehead. "Leave it be."

"Why?"

House whipped his head up and practically exploded. "Because I _don't_ want to talk about it! Because I don't even want to _think_ about it! Why can't you just _stop_?"

Wilson drew back in alarm. Even during the infarction, he had never seen such impotent fury on House's face. "Okay." Wilson licked his lips, then said again, "Okay."

House hung his head and made a visible effort to calm himself down, wringing his hands between his knees.

Wilson dared to say, "I just want to help."

"That's all you do, you _want _to help." House's every syllable dripped venom. "You never actually _do_, though."

"That's not true." Wilson denied it as much for his own benefit as for House's. "You were talking last night, you opened up to me. Why are you acting like it was an attack, like you have to slink off and lick your wounds? It wasn't a bad thing." He hesitated. "Was it?"

"It was if you don't _shut up about it_." House gave him a pointed glare and then faced the television, probably just to have something else to look at. After a few more seconds, though, he deflated a bit. "I was seven. It was cold. _Please_ don't push it."

Wilson nodded because he didn't know where he could push it to at this point. That sounded like some sort of passive child abuse, and if it was… Wilson didn't know what to do if it was. He found it interesting, though, that House chose to disclose that morsel, rather than report on his pain management regimen. He had to know that Wilson would latch onto it like a bottom feeder in a dirty aquarium. That could only mean that House wanted to distract him, to hide how terribly the new medication was working out. In a screwed up, House-ish sort of way, that was sweet. The past was immutable and irrelevant in House's worldview; in the present, he didn't want Wilson to worry about him.

Too bad Wilson couldn't share his worldview. Also too bad that the past was apparently more relevant than House would have liked. It bothered him so much that he couldn't even deal with it, except to ignore it altogether.

"Your mom expects you to call in an hour or so."

House shrugged an acknowledgement and made random faces at the floor. "Yeah. She says she brought some stuff for me. From my dad." He glanced at the fireplace. "We should buy some marshmallows."

Wilson couldn't help but smile at that. "Those rusty barbecues at the park work better. You can use more lighter fluid without burning a building down."

House snorted, his lips quirked into half a smile. "Yeah. Hotdogs, then. I'll even spring for Kosher."

"With _my_ bank card, no doubt."

"Can't use mine," House pointed out, as if this were a foregone conclusion. The frown returned, though, and he absently rose from the couch. Wilson watched him pad from the room, his steps heavy and lopsided.

The bathroom door snicked shut soon after, and Wilson sighed. For once, he really, truly didn't know how to help. And it bored holes into him to know that. He gathered their dirty coffee cups and the uneaten donuts and retreated to the kitchen. Once he heard the shower turn on, Wilson picked up the phone and dialed his own apartment. It rang a few times, and then Blythe picked up.

"Is that you, Greg?"

"No, it's James." He took a deep breath. "What the hell did John do to your son?"

* * *

Wilson could be confrontational when he wanted to, when he felt the situation warranted it. But right now, he couldn't muster it up; he felt numb. Wilson hung up the phone less than ten minutes later, his heart beating like a jackrabbit on speed.

Blythe hadn't actually confirmed anything at first; she'd fed him excuses and rationalizations, much as House did when he wasn't comfortable with a discussion, or more rarely, when he chose to hide from the truth. But the manner in which she had done so, downplaying when she didn't even know what House might have told him, made the truth painfully obvious. He was fuzzy on the exact course of the conversation, though, owing to his racing thoughts.

Wilson knew that he had said something like _Stop deflecting_ several times, but to no avail. Then there were bylines like _Greg was a difficult boy_ and _We couldn't just let him run wild_. Wilson said something House-worthy after that, though he couldn't remember what it was. He just knew that it cut deep and he could hear Blythe choking back tears on the other end of the receiver while defending things like force-feeding Greg an overdose of castor oil when he sassed his dad. Wilson couldn't ever remember seeing that stuff in a pharmacy as a kid, but considering the amount of time that the House family had spent outside of the US, maybe it was easy for them to obtain. And at some point, Blythe had actually said _Look, the ice baths were a last resort, when we couldn't make him understand any other way_. We. Not _him_, not just John. _We_.

Wilson didn't have all the details. He didn't know if that was the worst of it, or why House was bringing it up now, like this, but it was there in front of Wilson, for the first time. And it explained so much.

The shower cut off as Wilson started to count his breaths, as if he were having a panic attack. Like he had any right. He slumped onto the couch and let the dead phone slip from his fingers, staring at Tom and Jerry on the television in front of him. What did he do now? House would know something was wrong. Should Wilson bring it up? That seemed like the last thing House wanted, and for once, Wilson didn't care if it was healthy for House to repress it or not. He didn't want to ever again look at that lost little boy who had stated point-blank that his dad didn't love him.

Wilson pulled himself together when he heard House thump out of the bathroom. In the shifting reflection of the television screen, he saw House detour to the bedroom for a t-shirt to go with his jeans, and then he appeared behind Wilson in the hallway, black on blue.

"Wilson?"

Of course House could see Wilson's discomfiture. House saw everything.

Uncharacteristically quiet footsteps brought House to Wilson's shoulder. He leaned over the back of the couch to get a look at Wilson's face. "Migraine?"

Wilson felt like an ass. House was being solicitous; he sounded like he cared. Wilson hardly ever doubted that House cared, but House didn't show it if he didn't have to. "No. I'm…fine, House."

"Panic attack?" Without waiting for an answer, House pressed his fingers to Wilson's pulse point. "Yeah. Don't move."

Wilson shut his eyes for a moment, but he didn't have to the heart to disabuse House of his notion. When House came back from the bathroom with a Xanax and a Dixie cup of water, Wilson merely swallowed them and thanked him. He didn't even care to wonder why House had Xanax at his apartment.

House took the paper cup back after Wilson drank everything, then rounded the couch and plopped down next to him. He pounded his cane into the rug a few times, looking anywhere but at Wilson, then mumbled, "Didn't mean to yell."

"Don't you dare apologize," Wilson whispered. Ironic, considering that an apology was often the one thing he wanted most from House. Even without volume, Wilson's words shook. "You told me you didn't want to talk. I should have listened. That's pretty much what you implied last night: I don't listen, and then I hurt you."

"I gave you a panic attack," House pointed out. "You think I wanted to do that?"

Wilson shook his head listlessly. _No, you didn't give me a panic attack. No, I don't think you'd ever try to cause one. _What he said out loud was, "It's okay. I just need to catch my breath."

House seemed satisfied by this. How could he not see through to the part where Wilson _knew_? How could he mistake shock for a panic attack? "That custard offer is still on the table."

Wilson cracked a quiet, shame-faced grin. He shot House a grateful look but shook his head. "You don't have to fix it, much as the role reversal appeals to me."

"Figured I'd put it out there," House replied with a shrug. "I'm still hungry."

"That's more like it," Wilson exclaimed. "I _knew_ it had to be about you somehow."

House snorted. "Duh. I don't do good deeds."

"Yeah, you do."

House feigned affront. "Do not. Perish the thought."

Wilson gave himself a moment for second thoughts, then said, "You're a good guy, House. Don't knock it."

House tilted his head to regard him quizzically. Eventually, he just muttered, "Sap," at him, and lumbered to his feet. He recovered the donuts that Wilson had taken to the kitchen, then came back to watch more cartoons, oblivious while Wilson blinked and wrestled his thoughts into some semblance of order. Wilson kept an eye on him, pretending not to look, until House huffed at the ceiling in exasperation and declared, "You're giving me a complex. Do I have sprinkles in my ear or something?"

"No," Wilson replied as he looked away.

House stared at him for a second in full-blown diagnostic mode. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." Wilson ran his shirt fabric through otherwise idle fingers.

"Hm. Now you're lying. A _big_ lie that you only managed to find need for _after_ I took a shower." His voice hardened a lowered a few decibels. "What did you do?"

"I…I have to go." Wilson stumbled off the couch and made a wobbly beeline for his shoes and the door, heedless of the fact that he was clad in pajama pants and an undershirt.

"What?"

Wilson heard House getting to his feet behind him and crammed his toes into his loafers, his coat already in hand, groping on the desk for his car keys. All he could concentrate on was getting out of there before House realized that he had gone behind his back and called his mom, just so that he could make her cry and pry House's business from her. Even in Wilson's comparatively happy-go-lucky universe, that was a serious breach of trust, the kind that flowers and candy hearts couldn't fix. (Or in House's case, matchbox cars and alcohol.) Part of being in a relationship meant one had to respect the other person's boundaries, whether they made sense or not. Wilson, of all people, should have an acute sense of boundaries, considering that House went out of his way to trample such things in the most blatant ways imaginable, and Wilson often reciprocated in kind. But this wasn't a prank or a pilfered lunch; House would _not_ forgive him for it.

"Hafta go," Wilson repeated. Now, he was having a panic attack, and the earlier dose of Xanax barely helped him stave it off. He finally fumbled his car keys into his hands, but House slammed his palm against the door to stop him from leaving. Wilson jumped, but twisted the knob anyway, like House wasn't blocking his escape.

"Wilson, you can't drive like this."

This was a perfectly reasonable observation, and Wilson knew it, but he wanted to leave. The surest way to get House out of the doorway was to piss him off, so Wilson just attacked. House would call his mother in another few minutes anyway, and then he'd know. More importantly, Wilson needed House to move now. "I called your mom." He could hear the note of hysteria in his own voice. "She told me about ice water and castor oil and digging holes in the yard in January and spending nights under the porch and how he left you to get a sunburn so bad it blistered when you wouldn't come inside when he called and how he dragged you to the basement to teach you lessons on manners cuz you were _difficult_ – "

The hand over Wilson's mouth took him by surprise, and then he squeezed his eyes shut and blindly lashed out, still yelling something behind rough fingers. House spun him around and then dragged him in against his stomach, curved over Wilson's back to best hold him without getting a heel in the shin for his troubles. Wilson couldn't think beyond the terror and he kept thrashing, half aware that he'd fallen to his knees and that House was still more or less smothering him so that he didn't hurt himself. His arms were crossed over his chest now, House's grip on his wrists painful. He felt hot breath against his ear and figured that House was speaking, but the pound of blood in his head drowned out whatever angry words he was hissing there, and Wilson's blood pressure spiked…

"That's right. Breathe. Come on."

Wilson blinked. House knelt behind him, vertically spooning on the uneven ground, comfortably warm all around Wilson's body. Wilson gulped in as much cool air as his lungs could hold and tried to do what House told him, quaking in his grasp. One of House's huge hands was wrapped around both of Wilson's wrists, trapping them firmly over his belly button; the other ran soothing paths along Wilson's neck and the side of his face, pausing at intervals to discretely measure his pulse. It had been months since Wilson had an attack like that, since the first few weeks after the bus crash when he woke up in a cold sweat convinced that House had died too and left him alone, responsible for it. Cuddy had found him in a ball under his sink when she stopped by with a casserole and condolences; he had no recollection of it.

"Shhh…no, you stay right here."

Wilson stopped squirming, his chest heaving, mouth hanging open. His eyes fixed on his flannel pants, stretched taut over his bony knees. Blue plaid. Four shades of blue. Gingham…or tartan…tarter sauce. He was hungry but hollow and he must have thrown up. Couldn't smell it though…nose clogged, eyes streaming. He's okay now, mostly. He's okay, there's no yelling. House isn't yelling. God, this is embarrassing. He's a grown man crumpled on the floor, terrified of nothing.

House released his wrists now that he had quieted, and hugged him properly from behind. Wilson was too shaken to do anything except go rigid in his embrace, but House merely squeezed a bit tighter and gently kissed the side of his face. "You're okay, Wilson. Nothing bad is gonna happen."

"You don't do comfort," Wilson croaked.

"It's different when you run outside and try to get mowed down by a car."

"Out…" Holy shit. They were on asphalt between two parked cars. Wilson craned his neck to see the sidewalk over House's shoulder.

"Nobody saw," House assured him. "Except maybe the nosey old biddy across the hall. She likes to window watch, but she's practically blind. Oh, and the driver probably caught a glimpse of you, but that one's a toss-up." He rubbed his cheek against Wilson's neck. "Are you better now?"

Besides shivering on the cold ground, and feeling drained, he was fine. House holding him was probably the reason for that. Wilson nodded, still too shaken to be properly mortified by this.

House propped his chin on Wilson's shoulder. "See, this is why I didn't wanna tell you all the sordid details."

"You…predicted me having a panic attack?" His incredulity fell flat.

"No. I predicted you picturing it." House sighed. "I didn't want you thinking about me like that. It's pathetic."

Wilson swallowed, his mind automatically filing the choice of the word _pathetic_ away to think about later. "How mad are you?"

"I'm not mad. You just took all the fun out of loosing my temper."

Wilson laughed, breathless and giddy. He couldn't hold it, though, and his features went slack. "I'm sorry. I should have just let you have your space. I had no right to confront her."

House's mouth quirked even though he remained stoic. "Yeah, well I think you learned your lesson." They didn't speak for a few minutes, and then out of the blue, House said, "It's nice."

Wilson turned his head. "What is?"

"You know." House gestured at random. "That you care. I just…don't know what to do with it."

Wilson grasped the hand that already, perhaps by design, rested over his sternum. "You're doing just fine with it."

"Cool. Does that mean the Hallmark moment's over? My leg hurts."

Wilson rolled his eyes hip before disentangling himself. He laid a playful punch on House's shoulder though for his smart ass remark.

"Hey, hands off the cripple."

Wilson reached down to help House to his feet; a glance revealed no cane in sight. "You do realize you probably just saved my life, right?"

"Pfft." House waved him off and gimp-stepped up onto the sidewalk. "I save lives all the time. Now if we could bet _that_ against your death-sentence thank you's, I might be able to recoup my losses."

"No way. Those bets are my only chance at getting you to pay me back for fifteen years worth of food and alcohol. And aggravation."

House smirked over his shoulder. "That's what the sex is for."

Wilson pursed his lips and followed House back inside. "And you call _me_ the man-whore."

House shrugged. "Peas in a pod." He stopped abruptly and turned, shoving his nose right up to Wilson's, intent. "Don't ever do that to me again."

Before Wilson could puzzle out which offense House was referring to – harassing his mom or skipping out into traffic – House disappeared inside. Wilson merely smiled to himself and followed.

* * *

The next hour flew by in a series of awkward moments and too curious glances, treading on eggshells even though they'd called a truce. House forbade Wilson to come with him to see his mom, which Wilson considered reasonable. What bothered Wilson more was the quiet snick of the apartment door closing a minute later. He padded to the kitchen doorway and peered into the empty living room; House hadn't bothered to say he was leaving. After worrying that fact for a few minutes over a sink full of dirty dishes, Wilson merely sighed. He could only imagine what sort of conversation House and his mom would have now that Wilson had dragged the issue out into the open. If the only consequence Wilson suffered for it was a half-assed bout of the silent treatment, so be it. Wilson was the one who forced him into dealing with it at all.

The apartment felt strange without House in it. Wilson had been there alone several times, but only when he got home before House or House had to go back to the hospital in the middle of the night. He hadn't simply hung out there in House's absence before, but since Blythe was at his apartment and he didn't know how long she would be staying, Wilson didn't really have anywhere else to go.

First things first, Wilson needed a shower something fierce. On top of the sleep-stink that clung to him, he also caught a whiff of sweat and exhaust from being on the ground outside. When he stepped into the shower, he grinned because the blue dildo was still there. Then he wondered if House had left it there on purpose since he had already been in this morning. And of course, after that, Wilson pictured him maybe using it for himself, even though he knew intellectually that House wouldn't be able to hold the stance because of his leg. Still, he imagined it.

Hot water did the rest and Wilson closed his eyes at the mental image of House being where Wilson had been just some hours ago. He ran his left hand down his body and braced the other against the wall while he teased himself, scraping trimmed nails over his balls and imagining House watching him, pale blue eyes and an inscrutable stare. Wilson exhaled and wrapped his hand around himself. He kneaded his erection gently and then reached for the shower gel. With a dollop of Lever 2000 for lubrication, the entire process ended quickly. Wilson stood still for a second afterwards, blinking in the spray. It had almost…sucked. He'd been spoiled too much lately. For a man with mobility issues, hopped up on opiates, House's libido nearly outstripped Wilson's, which was a great thing unless House wasn't around.

Wilson finished rinsing and stepped out. He grabbed House's towel instead of his own and pretty much inhaled it while he dried his face. Steam prevented him from contemplating his reflection just yet, so Wilson pried open the medicine cabinet in search of aspirin for the ache in his legs from crashing into first the apartment floor, and then the pavement. What he found was a bottle of Xanax.

When House had handed him one earlier, Wilson honestly hadn't thought about where it came from. It looked like it had come from House's private stash. He checked the label on the bottle to see when it was prescribed, figuring that Doctor Ngyen had adjusted whatever regimen House was on, though he didn't know why Xanax would be a good choice to add to the existing cocktail. It was older than that, though. Much older. Wilson blinked. Someone he had never heard of prescribed it to House perhaps two weeks after his dad's funeral. It looked like House had taken a few doses, then given up on it around the same time that he and Wilson started to more or less see each other.

Wilson sighed at the bottle before putting it back. He knew better than to bring it up with House, even though the medication wasn't hidden. House wouldn't consider it snooping, just…he wouldn't see a need for discussion. In fact, it had never been Wilson's snooping or butting in that got on House's nerves; it was Wilson's propensity to try to talk it to death afterwards, to analyze it and extrapolate House's motivations or feelings or… For god's sake, didn't House realize that Wilson only made assumptions because House didn't offer him anything else?

Out in the living room, dressed in sweatpants and a PPTH sweatshirt, Wilson booted up his computer and logged onto the internet. He paused in his favorites list, considered bringing up patient files to work on, then clicked the Google logo instead. He searched for child abuse but only found articles of specific cases and sites for support groups and information on reporting it. While he wasn't sure what he was looking for, it wasn't that, so he changed the search to "creative" child abuse because it sounded like John and Blythe had used creative means against their son, rather than standard physical abuse. All that offered him were creative therapies for children taken from abusive homes. Wilson had done all the required psych rotations, and he kept current on his certifications. If there were anything useful to him there, he would already know it.

Wilson deleted his search criteria and stared for second, undecided. Then he googled BDSM. An hour's worth of Wikipedia linked articles later, Wilson wasn't sure if he was horny or disturbed. He was definitely more curious, so he went back and googled bondage. The perfect stereotype set him off further searching in that arena, as he stared wide-eyed and horrified at a picture on some Norwegian Dungeon Master's site of some guy with over a dozen clothes pins clipped to his scrotum. He couldn't hit the back arrow fast enough.

He tried searching for sexual submission next, and then sub/dom, only to find dozens of ads from people looking for submissive or dominant partners. Wilson refrained from banging his head on the keyboard and tried for a last ditch search of "S&M" even though metal bondage and pain were certainly _not_ House's turn-ons.

"Yes!" Wilson clicked at an innocuous link that said the main site included articles pertaining to the BDSM lifestyle. He found himself on "Leather and Roses" and sure enough, just after the age warning, he found a list of topic links and informative articles. Some of the articles were even written by psychologists. Wilson devoured a number of texts about sub/dom relationships, though he wasn't sure it applied to whatever had happened between him and House the night before. It did back up House's assertion that his interest stemmed from his need to trust Wilson. The article, though, stressed open and unambiguous communication as an integral part of that sort of play. House was allergic to communicating like that. And all the talk of power exchanges and consensual slavery turned Wilson off all the way.

He was on the verge of closing the site when another article caught his eye: Psychological Dimensions of Masochistic Surrender. He clicked it, though he was hardly interested at this point, and had pretty much already given up on finding anything useful on the internet. Some woman psychologist had written this one, though, so he began to skim through it. It didn't talk about inflicting pain, or about bending to someone's will or categorizing types of relationships. It was written by a therapist who treated sexual addictions, and had found herself with several ashamed masochists for patients. She described submission as liberating for a person who couldn't, under any other circumstances, let down their walls far enough or long enough to feel "normal." Or to feel less than perfect at all. Then she discussed the feelings of shame that masochists expressed to her, and how even though they craved the sort of release that submission offered, they often still considered themselves "sick." Talk about the "false self" that a submissive presented to the world in order to gain respect, or her observation that most submissives she met in her practice were highly successful, driven people at the tops of their professional games, under immense stress to continue, at all costs, to remain successful… She could have been talking about House. Why weren't there more articles like _this_ out there, written by professionals?

Wilson neared the end of the article and had to pause to re-read one set of lines. _The intensity of the masochism is a living testimonial of the urgency with which some buried part of the personality is screaming to be released. The deeper yearning is a longing to be reached, known and accepted in a safe environment which narcissistic, dysfunctional or preoccupied parents were unable to provide the child at a young age._

After sitting back to contemplate that for a moment, Wilson printed the entire article and then hid it in his briefcase, between stacks of loose filing. Hopefully, he wouldn't forget that it was there before he passed it all on to his assistant. He flagged the site for later before shutting the computer down because he had noticed some articles geared toward people with physical handicaps, not that House would ever so much as _contemplate_ reading them.

Wilson puttered around the apartment for a few hours, ignoring the TV even though he had turned it on, and then ended up stripping House's bed to do a load of laundry. With an armful of dirty blankets and sheets, he nearly tripped over the box of sex toys and ended up sprawled half on the bed to keep from falling. He swore as he collected himself and stomped off to start the washing machine. He nearly toppled out of his own skin when he came back to find House in the living room, just standing in front of the closed door, his back to Wilson.

"You're back."

House turned a fraction and Wilson took in his stooped profile, the way House's palm slid down the door and then flopped to hang at his side. He canted so far to the right that he must have been supporting more than just half his weight on the cane.

Hesitant, Wilson asked, "How was your mom? I, um…" He raised a hand to knead the back of his neck. "I hope I didn't upset her too much."

In a small voice, House said, "I took her to the airport. She wanted to stay longer but I told her…I wanted her to go."

Wilson looked off to the left and then settled his eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, House."

"I thought you only called her cuz you thought you had a right to know," House went on as if Wilson hadn't apologized. "I thought you just wanted… But she said you were pissed."

Wilson shrugged uncomfortably. "I _am_ pissed."

"She said you told her she had no right raising a child if she was just doing it so her husband could play with an interactive punching bag."

"Um…yeah." Wilson vaguely recalled saying something like that.

"Did you mean it?"

Wilson didn't even have to think about that one. "Yeah, I meant it. I'm not sorry for saying it, I'm just sorry it ended up hurting you."

House turned to face him, his head tilted, puzzled. "Nobody ever stood up for me before."

"That's…" Wilson shook his head, at a loss, then settled on, "That's sad."

"I know."

They stared at each other for a few moments, and then House headed for the couch like nothing was wrong. Wilson watched him ease down, leather cushions creaking over the hum of the television, and then he asked, "So…what did she say about…?" Wilson gestured even though House wasn't looking in his direction, and left the question open.

House heaved a weary sigh. "Exactly what I thought she would. She defended him."

"That's why you've never confronted her, isn't it. You were afraid she'd side with him."

"I _knew_ she'd side with him. She always sided with him."

Wilson acknowledged that with a troubled nod, then swallowed. "Do you want me to leave? I understand if you want some space."

House twisted around to peer at him over the back of the couch, then shook his head in silence.

"Okay. It's a little early, but I'll go make some dinner." Anything just to keep his hands busy.

House settled to stare at the television, though Wilson doubted he paid the program any attention. After watching him sit in perfect stillness for nearly a minute, Wilson shuffled out of the room. He felt terrible for putting House through that, and he couldn't honestly say that he thought it was better to have it in the open instead of quietly gnawing House to pieces. At least denial could shield him from it. Now, House even _looked_ raw.

Wilson set some water to boil a few cups of rice and chopped vegetables for a stir fry; his wok had migrated to House's months ago, and it saw regular use now that Wilson spent all his free time here. He focused his thoughts on seasoning and oils, and caramelizing onions.

Once the concoction was good to simmer for a while, Wilson wandered back into the living room and crossed his arms with the spatula sticking out of one fist. "Can I do anything? You want a drink?"

"Can't drink anymore," House murmured. "Too many drug interactions."

Wilson tried again. "A soda? Water?"

"You're getting weird about it."

"You'll have that," Wilson acknowledged.

"I don't need you breaking out the kid gloves."

"So help me out here. Tell me what I can do for you."

House shifted on the couch and glanced up. His eyes tripped down to rest on the spatula. Wilson's followed automatically; he was dripping oil residue on the floor. "Oh." As he turned to go back to the kitchen, though, House grabbed his forearm and held him there for a moment. Then he slowly clambered to his feet and pushed Wilson back far enough that he could get out from in front of the couch. His eyes darted about without really looking at Wilson's face, then settled pointedly on the spatula for a moment before he released Wilson and turned around. It took Wilson several failed attempts at reorganizing reality to process when House unfastened and dropped his jeans, and then kneeled heavily, draping himself over the arm of the couch.

Wilson stepped in place and glanced away several times. As if to answer his uncertainties, he watched a deep, shamed flush spread across House's cheeks before he buried his face in the crook of his elbow and went still, waiting. There was no doubt over what House was asking him to do but Wilson stood immobile behind him, too stunned to even utter a syllable of protest. He watched the flush spread to House's ears and along the back of his neck, worse in the face of Wilson's silence. Just to reassure him that Wilson wasn't rejecting the request outright, he took a step closer and placed his palm between House's shoulder blades. House flinched the slightest bit and then breathed out sharply. He squirmed before he settled again.

It took Wilson a few tries before he worked up enough saliva to unglue his tongue and speak. "You know that nothing he did was your fault, right?"

Into his elbow, House mumbled, "I know. Doesn't matter."

"No, I suppose it doesn't." _It still hurts._ "House – "

"Please don't say it, please."

Leaving aside the fact that House couldn't possibly know what Wilson would have said, he stopped talking.

"I know it's not my fault that he wanted to do those things, I _know_ that, Wilson. But it doesn't change the fact that I could have said something about it, and I could have found a way to get him to stop, and I didn't. I just kept my mouth shut and I let him keep doing it. _That_ part _is_ my fault."

"No it's not!" Wilson had struck even before he thought about it and the impact resonated through the rubber grip of the metal spatula while the clap still flopped about the room. He stopped himself from swearing out a sordid apology because he could only imagine how mortifying it must have been for House to be kneeling there to begin with, his bare ass hanging out, practically begging Wilson to hit him. How much worse would it be if Wilson expressed any sort of disgust?

House had recoiled at the blow, but he straightened himself out and quickly resumed his previous position, his hands clutching the edges of the cushion where he hid his face. He breathed a bit harder than before, his ribs expanding and contracting, but it seemed like being struck soothed him. Wilson tried to recall his reading from earlier in the day, reflecting that only luck had led him there _before_ this happened. Shame and need, intermingled in a desperate bid for relief, for freedom from the shell that the person could not otherwise force themselves to break through – that was how the psychologist had characterized the masochistic mind. It wasn't about loving pain; it was about submitting to someone else's strength, because the person couldn't fall alone.

Wilson wished that he could say he chose to do this because he wanted to, but under the circumstances, his need to bring comfort at any cost drove him to give in to House's unspoken plea. He reminded himself that it wasn't common, but it wasn't sick either. And the fact that House was willing to risk the humiliation of being rejected for this…well that pretty much cinched it for him.

Wilson massaged the back of his neck for a second, digging his fingers in as if he could gouge out his discomfort, and then sighed. "Alright." He switched the spatula to his other hand long enough to sort of palm at House's flank. "Scoot up a bit more. Put your weight on your chest so your leg doesn't cramp up." He could hardly believe he was doing this, and part of his brain detached to watch from a distance.

House complied without a word and grumbled in apparent relief. Once he had settled as comfortably as possible, Wilson ran his hand down House's back and kneaded his buttocks to bring the blood to the surface, to cushion the blows. He didn't want to leave marks and he could use less force without lessening the sting. House relaxed under his touch and molded his front over the couch, his respirations evening out.

"Tell me if you need to stop."

House nodded into the couch.

"You're sure about this?"

Wilson didn't get a response to that one, but he figured he didn't need one, considering that House hadn't moved. Wilson took the spatula back in his dominant hand and braced his other between House's shoulder blades, not so much holding him down as adding a symbolic restraint. Or maybe it was just because Wilson needed to touch him in some tender way to reassure himself that he only did this because he cared.

At the first smack, House grunted and curled more tightly over the couch arm. Wilson added more force to the second one and pressed harder between House's shoulders when he squirmed. "That okay?"

House groaned out an affirmative and relaxed again.

It was surreal, watching his arm swing down, the metal spatula flashing in the diluted light from the other room. Wilson counted one-one-thousand between each hit, fully cognizant of the way House huffed out sudden breaths and how his air hitched on the inhale, sometimes whimpering when Wilson struck him just right, other times hardly reacting at all. Wilson's right arm pushed him firmly into the couch and he could feel House's muscles rippling under his palm. They both breathed heavily, Wilson's bicep growing sore after what felt like an incredibly short time. Eventually, he realized that House had tensed so much that his knees weren't even resting on the floor anymore, and every time the spatula hit, he curled forward abruptly with a sharp cry. For all intents, it looked like he was humping the couch.

Wilson paused and straightened to crack his back, his gaze straying from House's rear to the rest of him. He leaned to one side and reached under House's body to find his suspicions confirmed; House had a significant erection. When Wilson felt it out, House grunted and stuttered out something that may have included words, save for the couch that he kept his head buried in. He breathed more harshly, though, and his back arched just enough to display how aroused he was.

Wilson twisted to set the spatula on the coffee table and then lightly stroked House's back. He dug his fingers in around House's shoulders, then massaged along his spine until he reached the reddened skin at his tailbone. "House? I'm gonna ask you something, and I need just a yes or no answer. It's important, okay?"

House raised his head just enough for Wilson to see the side of his face; House's swollen, pink eyes dismayed him, but House didn't seem fazed by it.

"The…abuse. Was it ever sexual?"

"No."

Wilson nodded and House stuck his nose back into the crook of his arm. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

Wilson padded softly out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom, where he eased the door shut. His legs wobbled and gave out, and he slid down the door until he reached the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest. Then he curled over and let out a quiet sob, torn between his conscience calling him a horrible asshole, and the rest of him getting off on knowing that House had become aroused by Wilson's treatment. He had no time to come to terms with it; House was waiting out in the living room, completely pliant, seemingly content to just let Wilson do whatever he chose. After swiping his sleeves over his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, Wilson climbed back to his feet and rummaged about in the medicine cabinet for a bottle of lubricant. Then he stood facing the closed bathroom door to make sure that he was collected enough to leave before he reached for the handle.

House hadn't moved, though he had settled some of his weight on the floor again. Wilson walked up and kneeled behind him, threatened by tears at the sight of the mottled flesh before him. "Are you still okay?"

House lifted his head without showing Wilson his face. "Are you?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"Then yeah."

"Okay." Wilson uncrossed House's ankles and took his shoes off, then removed his jeans and boxers the rest of the way. Then he scooted closer. House helpfully spread his knees wider on the floor and Wilson leaned in to press his lips to House's waist, then to the tip of his hip bone. He rose up a bit and stretched over House to grasp the arm of the couch on either side of him, then covered him and mouthed at the nape of his neck. House shuddered and let out a shaky breath, pressing his buttocks into Wilson's stomach. He kept his head bowed, his forehead resting on his folded arms as Wilson shimmied higher on his body and gently pressed his clothed groin against House's ass. Wilson reached around to grip House's cock, finding it just as hard as when he had walked out, and House pushed forward into his grip with a rumbling sigh.

Wilson backed up to get his sweats and his boxers off, then moved back in and settled his cock in the cleft of House's ass, rubbing softly against his bright skin. If it hurt at all, House gave no outward sign, but Wilson tried to keep his touch gentle just the same. He worked his way down House's back and then made a face when he realized that the grease from the spatula had flavored House's skin with teriyaki and herbs. The stir fry would be good, once he added the rice.

"What are you laughing at?"

Wilson raised his head and grabbed the lube from the floor. "Your ass tastes like my wok."

"That only sounds marginally less dirty than it really is."

Wilson's eyebrows waggled in a burst of amusement, and then he tipped the lube bottle to dribble some down House's backside.

"Hmph. Cold."

Wilson ran his fingers through the slick line of fluid and set the bottle aside. House angled his hips to give Wilson easier access and Wilson stroked his anus a few times before he eased a finger inside. He twisted to run his last knuckle along the tight outer ring of muscle and then gently pressed further in, past the second ring, until the webs between his fingers grazed the puckered opening. He stroked House's prostate with the pad of his finger and House's breath hitched as he twitched into the sensation. There was no resistance to Wilson's probing; House was as relaxed as he ever got, so Wilson added a second finger, and then joined it with a third less than a minute later. Wilson reached between House's legs to grasp his penis, and every soft nudge to House's prostate sent his hips jerking forward. House moaned low in his throat and his body heaved over the arm of the couch as he gasped and breathed through Wilson's attentions.

For his own part, Wilson was slightly less enthusiastic, but the sight still turned him on. He drew his fingers from House's body and used the lube that coated them to slick up his penis. He had to tug at himself a few times before he worked up enough hardness to take it any further, but the inviting site before him helped a great deal. House could barely remain still with Wilson's hand cinched about his cock, denying him friction but putting just enough pressure around the shaft to keep him suspended. Wilson shifted his grip to press his thumb against the sweet spot under the head and House folded hard over the couch arm, tensed and whimpering like a basket of puppies as Wilson drew tiny circles, the tip of his fingernail nudging House's foreskin. An ecstatic whine trembled from House's lips and he threw his head back, his back arched off the couch, eyelids fluttering shut.

Wilson closed back in at that point and draped himself over House's back, pressing him back down onto the cushion. He grasped House's wrists and folded his arms against his chest, embracing him and restraining him at the same time, trapping both their arms under House's body. House made a needy sound and purred as Wilson's weight settled on top of him, and Wilson shuffled his knees until he had enough leverage with which to thrust. He angled his hips to press his tip against House's opening, sliding through leftover lube to find it, and then nudged his way inside. House grunted and his breath slid out of rhythm, his torso flexing in Wilson's grip.

Wilson came to rest, their bodies flush, and tried to recall if he had ever topped from behind like this. He didn't think he had, and it was a totally different experience. He could see the tendons standing out all along House's neck, the sweat beading at his hairline. Then there were House's thighs shivering on either side of Wilson's, his back rounding to meet Wilson's stomach, the way he angled his pelvis and circled his hips with his buttocks cradled in the creases where Wilson's legs joined his body, breathing in the constricted space inside of Wilson's arms, his feet brushing Wilson's calves as he shifted while trying to stay still. Wilson felt the tendons in House's wrists shift as he made fists and tried to use the leverage of his upper body to lift his ass and suck Wilson's cock in deeper.

Wilson didn't move for an interminable amount of time; he was too caught up in the subtle variations and movements of the man in his arms, slowly coming undone in complete stillness. Eventually, neither of them could have stood to be immobile any longer and Wilson pulled almost all of the way out. He pushed back in, torturously slow, then repeated, pushing forward as firmly as he could, holding even after he met too much resistance to penetrate deeper, gently shoving House against the side of the couch and keeping him pressed there for a few seconds before he withdrew and thrust again, his toes digging into the floor. The action left House gulping back moans as Wilson squished him repeatedly, ever so softly, against the leather.

A few minutes of this was all Wilson could take. He could feel the ache in his balls intensify as he fought to maintain the lazy pace. In his grasp, House shuddered without cessation, breathing erratically, his mouth hanging open and subject to random bursts of sound. Wilson increased his tempo and switched to rapid, shallow thrusts that soon left him breathless as he mouthed the side of House's neck, laving his tongue through stubble and dried tears that had trickled all over his face. House panted and clamped his mouth shut, his face shoved into the couch cushion as Wilson pumped into him from behind, striking his prostate almost every time.

Wilson felt it when House hit the edge, his rectum clenching all about Wilson's cock and then rippling as House tossed his head back and bit his lip on a sultry moan. Wilson tightened his grip on House's body and kept moving as House spasmed and cried out again, his back arching, body flexing beneath Wilson's, elongating over the couch cushion amidst a helpless gasp, and then every muscle in his body tensed and he humped the couch with Wilson still drilling him, dragging in ragged gulps of air at uneven intervals. At what he deemed the halfway point, Wilson pushed in as far as he could manage and trapped House's lower body against the couch so that he couldn't move except to squirm, Wilson's tip lodged against his prostate, milking him. House gasped several harsh, startled breaths and then keened, digging his feet into the floor to try to obtain some sort of movement, something to lessen the fire inundating his nervous system. Wilson wouldn't let him back off from it, and finally, House thrashed in Wilson's arms, desperate half-moans and high-pitched yelps ripping themselves from the far reaches of House's throat, and he threw himself face down on the couch to sob and writhe with total abandon, at Wilson's mercy.

After nearly a minute, it tapered off and Wilson eased back, thoroughly turned on and in desperate need himself. He hadn't tried that before, though he had read about it, and god… With House sagging limp against the couch arm, Wilson adjusted himself and drove hard and fast, curled over House's pliant body, until pressure exploded at the base of his cock, his balls drawn up taut against his body. Wilson huffed out a surprised exclamation and went rigid, then gasped and emptied himself, shivering under the onslaught, probably bruising House's wrists, he squeezed so fiercely. Exhausted though he was, House tried to move with him, to help him along, clenching his ass around Wilson's cock to give him more pressure, more texture.

Wilson let out a hitched moan as the pleasure trickled off, then pulled House down off the couch with him, wrapping around him on the floor in something more than spooning. They caught their breath in short spurts, gulping air to cool their seared lungs, groaning occasionally to be so sated, so completely wrecked. It took Wilson several minutes to realize that he was still holding House's wrists in place against his stomach, but House showed no inclination to pull free. Endorphins left Wilson dopey and heavy-lidded, and he lifted his head with a soft purr to mouth along House's jugular, exhaling long breaths in between with his lips just resting on House's skin. The sweat evaporated from their bodies and left Wilson cold, though House burrowed into him and seemed perfectly content with the room's temperature, perhaps on account of his Wilson blanket.

Wilson smiled at that thought and nudged House's legs with his knee. "I have to check on dinner."

"Mmph."

"How are you doing?"

House inhaled, his breath still shaky. "Much better."

Wilson nodded and kissed his temple, half afraid that House would shy or shrug him off. He did neither. "Come on. We have to get up before the rice water burns off."

"Wilson?"

Wilson paused, propped on his elbow, and leaned over House's shoulder for a glimpse of his face. He'd bitten his lip bloody. "Yeah?"

House blinked his eyes open and started to say something, but Wilson could see the veil descend once again to cut him off, to protect him from whatever the outside world might inflict. He turned his head away and mumbled, "Never mind. I smell burning."

"House – "

"I don't wanna talk."

Wilson nodded. "Okay. I won't make you." They untangled themselves and Wilson helped House stand, then pressed his cane into his hand. As House limped away toward the bathroom, Wilson felt compelled to call out, "You know I love you, right? No matter what you…no matter anything?"

House turned just enough for Wilson to see the scowl, and it was not a playful one. He kept his head bowed, chin near his chest, and snarled, "Love is a dirty word. I'd just as soon not hear you apply it to me."

Wilson stood there dumbstruck as House disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door. The living room bore evidence of their dysfunctional rendezvous, but Wilson had ended up feeling good about it, encouraged even, until House delivered his parting remark. Confused and hurt, Wilson dragged his sweats back on and padded back to the kitchen to rescue dinner.

* * *

**A/N:** The website for Leather and Roses, and specifically the article I quoted, can be found via Google. This thing won't let me post the link. It is a very well-thought, helpful and informative site concerning the BDSM lifestyle.


	13. Chapter 13

Wilson stayed in the kitchen, listening to the shower run for almost an hour and progressively feeling more and more sick to his stomach. He should have refused to do it, or barring that, he should never have allowed it to culminate in sex. What was he thinking? What was _House_ thinking, for that matter? He hardly registered footsteps, and then a door opening and closing in the living room. It was only after his ears picked up the buzz of the Repsol outside that Wilson catapulted from his stance against the counter in time to see House whiz away from the window. He spun around as if it hadn't happened and House was still there, and then a square of yellow on the front door caught his eye.

Wilson stumbled forward to pluck a post-it from the door, covered in House's rather neat (for a doctor) penmanship.

_Team called. Have a case. _

_You didn't do anything wrong._

_Sorry I'm a jerk._

Wilson flipped it over more in shock than because he thought there was anything written on the reverse. He found one more word, though. _Thanks._ He wondered if House put that word there just now, or if the post-it were an old, used one, and the gratitude with it. He didn't know which he would prefer.

House didn't come home at all for the rest of the weekend. Wilson slept two nights in the recliner, hoping he would.

On Monday, Wilson shuffled into PPTH unrested and downcast. He knew that House spent days on end in his office if the case were interesting enough, but it seemed deliberate this time, like House just wanted to avoid him. Wilson didn't have the heart for another confrontation right now, so he skipped his office and went straight to the locker room to stow his briefcase, then to a resection that he had scheduled for ten. It went as well as he could have expected, which helped to lift his spirits; a teenage boy would likely live to experience his first kiss, and by extension, his first harrowing experience with the over-protective parents of some nice young girl. Wilson smiled to himself as he stripped off his surgery gear, dropping gloves and mask in the trash on his way to the sinks. Chase showed up in the scrub room a few minutes later, pretty much splattered from head to toe.

Wilson nodded a terse greeting. "I hope all that blood spells good news."

"Only if by good news, you mean that some arsehole abusive husband who got shot by his wife is now dead."

"ER case?" Wilson faced the sink again and concentrating on lathering his hands. Even after a procedure, he observed the ritualistic cleaning. "Did he deserve it?"

Chase gave a mirthless laugh. "Hell yes, he deserved it. The wife barely escaped alive, and he tried to put a toaster through their kid's head. Split the little bugger's skull right open."

Wilson blinked a few times and shifted his feet. "That's…sorry I asked. The kid?"

"He'll be fine." Chase sighed. "Cracking him open kept the edema and bleeding from killing him. He'll need surgery to fix the facial scarring, but all in all, he's a lucky guy."

Wilson rinsed his hands and grabbed the soap again.

"Didn't you just come _out_ of an OR?"

"Yeah." Wilson scrubbed his fingernails into the soap bar and then set it aside. He rinsed again. Footsteps brought Chase closer, and Wilson glanced over his shoulder.

"Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Wilson looked back at his hands, scorched bright red under the faucet, then reached to shut the water off before he turned around. "Do you…are… Can I take you out for a coffee?"

Chase's brows lowered a bit. "Why? You doing House's dirty work now? Whatever he wants me to do, tell him no. I'd probably get fired for it anyway."

As Chase turned away, Wilson pushed himself away from the sink and blurted, "He asked me to hit him." Only after he said it did he think to check that the rest of the room was empty.

"What, House?" Chase came back to stand in front of him.

"Look, he said you used to…date people…that you were into…"

"Hey. Deep breath." Chase took Wilson's arm and dragged him over to a bench. "Sit, breathe, calm down."

"I can't." Wilson flopped onto the bench, a yarn ball of anxiety. "He just – his mom showed up Friday, and it didn't go well, and – things, she said things to him, I don't even know what." Wilson folded forward and pressed his face into his hands. "I'm gonna throw up."

Chase shoved a waste basket under his nose with his foot. "Did you do it?"

Wilson lifted his head and peered up at Chase. "How could I not? He was already on his knees, he all but begged me."

"And?"

"And what?" Wilson hung his head between his knees and drew in long draughts of air.

"And what happened? Was he okay afterwards?"

Wilson leaned farther over, though he didn't think he would actually be sick anymore. "I don't know!"

"Okay, I see you're freaked out by this. But really, I'm not surprised he'd want something like that."

To his feet, Wilson mumbled, "I'm surprised."

"A lot of people have difficulty expressing emotional pain. They think it's not real because you can't touch it, so they need to externalize it in order to get over it. That's all this is. You said he was upset by something his mum said?"

Wilson nodded and sat up a little.

"You know House. Half of his leg pain is probably caused by a conversion disorder. He just needed an out this time, something physical, and he asked you to help him. It's probably an improvement on whatever he would've done to himself."

"His pain is real," Wilson countered forcefully.

"I know, but psychological triggers can make it worse. That doesn't mean it's a farce. You've seen it yourself. When he's happy, he bounces all over the place – nobody can catch him. When something's wrong, he sits around and broods and holds his thigh, then starts popping pills and biting peoples' heads off."

Wilson pressed mixed fingers into his hair and temples. "House will kill me if he finds out I told you this."

"Relax. He won't find out."

Wilson glanced at Chase's shoe.

Chase stepped around the trash can and took a seat next to him. "Look. House is the sort of guy who thinks that showing emotion is…is weak. Or that it's not logical. So he internalizes everything, but it doesn't just go away. It has to come out somehow."

Wilson snorted. "So you're saying I should beat it out of him. That's brilliant."

"No, I'm saying he never learned how to express it the way you and I do. He can't just let it out because that would make him vulnerable, and if he's vulnerable – "

"Then he gets hurt. Yeah, he said something like that a little while back." Wilson sighed and leaned back against the wall. The cold stone made him shiver in his thin scrubs.

"He needs a catalyst – something that will make it okay to…to cry, or to feel like crap. Some sort of excuse that people can _see_. For some people, that means…" Chase waved a hand in the air. "I know it doesn't make much sense to you. It probably never will. But it's a good thing. He must really feel safe with you if he let you see that side of him."

"He got pissed at me afterwards and then disappeared for two days." Wilson turned his head without lifting it off the wall.

Chase made a thinking face. "Did you say something?"

"I told him…this doesn't leave this room, right?"

"Promise. I'll call it client confidentiality." At Wilson's look, Chase added, "I 'consult' for some people. The extra money's nice."

Wilson studied him for a second, but he wasn't House. He couldn't see the lies in a guileless person's face. After he looked away, he replied, "I told him I loved him. And he blew up. Said I shouldn't apply that word to him."

Chase clasped his hands and looked about ready to call Wilson an idiot. "What did you say, _exactly_?"

Wilson pursed his lips in exasperation. "I think I said, 'You know I love you, right?'"

"You had a Hallmark childhood, didn't you." Chase scooted to the edge of the bench but remained sitting. "You know – perfect loving parents, never got punished, always felt accepted, no matter what you did or how bad you screwed up."

"I got punished. Just not…" Wilson straightened. "What are you getting at?"

"I've known House for a while. And I met his parents once. Staunch Marine dad always harping on him to take it like a man, dutiful wife standing by." Chase examined his hands and then turned a perfectly bland expression on Wilson. "How many times do you think he heard something like that, growing up? I'm betting from his mum. His dad didn't seem the type to ever say something nice to House. You know? One of them saying he's a worthless pile of dog shit that'll amount to nothing, and the other telling him he's perfect just the way he is and she loves him no matter what. That's gotta screw with a kid's head."

Wilson nodded, then averted his eyes. Chase may have known more than he let on, but he didn't add to his remarks. The Aussie was perceptive in his own right, something he probably learned from House. Wilson sighed and clasped his hands. "I don't think I can do it again."

"He probably won't ask for it all that often," Chase tried to reassure him. "Only when things get too out of control for him to handle. But you should talk to him about it. He might not realize that it bothered you so much, especially if it ended in sex?"

Wilson sputtered and turned red. "I – how – we haven't – "

Chase grinned at that. "It did!" Then his face fell. "Damn! I can't collect."

"You had a bet going?" Wilson tried to be outraged, but he couldn't quite make it. "With who?"

"Never mind. Look, just… You'll work it out." Chase stood up and started to leave, then paused at the doors. "You should really talk to him about it. He'll probably try to bite you or something, but…" He ended with a shrug and walked out.

"Yeah," Wilson muttered to the empty scrub room. "Cuz we do the whole talking thing so well already."

* * *

Wilson drifted back to his office, freshly showered and dressed in his normal work apparel, crisp as always. One of his nurses waylaid him on the way and pressed a message slip into his hand. Wilson thanked her and almost stuck it on the pile on the edge of his desk, to be dealt with later, but it fluttered off. In picking it up from the floor, accompanied by a groan at demanding a contortion of his lower back, he noticed Ngyen's name. Nothing about the subject of the call appeared, merely a request for Wilson to call him back at his earliest opportunity. It seemed strange, but he and Ngyen shared a small number of long term patients. He had no reason to think that the call concerned House, but it crossed his mind nonetheless. Perhaps the nurse who spoke to him simply neglected to write the patient's name down.

Curiosity got the best of him, and Wilson ended up snatching the message slip back off his stack. He dialed the other doctor's number with only half a mind to it, then tried to convince himself that he wasn't worried or suspicious by calling up some patient files on his laptop and inputting his latest treatment notes.

Ngyen himself picked up, and Wilson started. "Oh. Um. This is Doctor James Wilson. You, uh. You left a message for me this morning?"

"Doctor Wilson, yes." Ngyen's voice carried the barest trace of a Korean accent, not that Wilson could have distinguished it from any other Asian accent. He had asked, once, where the doctor was originally from. "I hope you're not too busy at the moment? Your nurse told me that you were doing a procedure this morning."

"Yes. It went well." Wilson's gaze darted from his paper file to his laptop as if unsure how to converse and continue working at the same time. Finally, he sighed and shut his eyes, dropping his forehead to his free hand. He poked his temple with his pen and could only hope that he hadn't just marked himself. "Look, I have… We don't have any patients in common right now."

Ngyen's sigh drifted over the phone. "I'm only calling because Doctor House listed you as his emergency contact."

"Emergency?" Wilson sat up and dropped his pen. "W-why? What happened? Is he okay?"

"Relax; he's not hurt, as far as I know. I'm sorry to have startled you."

Wilson rolled his eyes and slumped back. "Right. Sorry."

"You expect the worst when it comes to him, don't you."

"I have a lot of experience with the worst, when it comes to him." Wilson let out a wry laugh. "What exactly can I do for you?"

"Well…" Ngyen trailed off and Wilson heard him tapping something in the background, like a nervous tick. "He didn't arrive for his PET scan this morning, and considering that he failed to make his appointment with me last week, I confess that I'm a little concerned. Has something happened to him? Do you know if he's well?"

"If… But he told me he spoke to you about his medication regime." Wilson leaned his elbows on the desk and unconsciously searched the space across the balcony for a glimpse of House.

"He did. He called to tell me that it wasn't working, that he was getting no better. I explained that it may take some time for his body to adjust, and that we should get a PET scan to see if we can identify the type of pain he's still experiencing. I told him I would have my assistant schedule it, and to be honest, I was not surprised when he didn't show up later that day. I know Doctor House's reputation quite well."

Wilson nodded to himself. "I know he's frustrated. He's had a few bad spasms since starting the new medication. I know he's concerned that it's making him worse."

"Actually, it's _not _worse," Ngyen countered. He wasn't mean about it, just matter-of-fact. "It's status quo. He was experiencing episodes of severe breakthrough pain at least three times a month before he came to see me, necessitating a self-injection of morphine, by his own admission. In addition to that, the periodic spasms have always been a problem for him, ever since the debridement surgery. His remaining muscles cramp after even minor exertion; they have to compensate for the absence of part of the strongest muscle in the average man's leg. My guess is that you simply haven't been in his company with enough regularity to see it, until recently." Ngyen paused and Wilson spent the moment absorbing that information. "Doctor Wilson, I'm very concerned. On intake, Doctor House indicated to me that he only made the appointment to pacify you. He's hinted at some sort of…relationship?"

Wilson shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. There's a relationship." How could House have kept his true condition hidden? Wilson prescribed for him for nearly eight years. Did he just miss the signs? Was he too partial? He could recall a dozen distinct instances, right off the top of his head, when House had asked for stronger medication or said something about his leg hurting. But at the time, it had seemed like nothing more than griping. Wilson had misread him, apparently. Perhaps he never should have been House's physician in that regard; he was too close, and he had _never_ been able to well-enough face the thought of his friend in pain to objectively determine when he needed something more. And more, for Wilson, seemed only to ever come out of guilt; House didn't even attempt to lay a guilt trip when he actually needed more.

Ngyen broke through his thoughts. "If what he said to me was true, then – please forgive me for saying this – but if he's not making this effort for his own benefit, then I don't see that he's got much of a vested interest in coming back here. I do believe that I can help him reduce his daily discomfort, but if he has no real hope that it's possible for me to do that – "

"Look, I'll…I'll find him. Thank you for calling me. I'll handle…whatever. I'll take care of it. Thank you." Wilson hung up before Ngyen could say anything more, and rolled his chair back. He didn't know how he should handle this, he only knew that he wanted to throttle House for being an ass and for sabotaging himself at every turn. Ngyen could, eventually, help him, and yet House's willingness to try to improve his life seemed to turn on a whim. A whim, apparently, governed in part by Wilson's words and deeds. What, then, had Wilson done to discourage him from trying anymore, when Wilson had somehow managed to convince him to go in the first place? What had changed?

Wilson scrubbed at his face, then stood and grabbed his lab coat on his way to the corridor. He swung it over his shoulders and was still adjusting his shirt cuffs in the starched white sleeves when he barreled into the diagnostics conference room. House turned from his whiteboard to treat Wilson to a bored sort of half-smirk, then went back to listing symptoms. Wilson peered past his shoulder to read them out of habit: cataplexy, head pains, migraines (crossed out), elevated resting heart rate, loss of gag reflex, fainting…

"House. Got a minute?"

House kept on scrawling across the board. "Nope." He glanced over his shoulder, bent partway over, the marker held out as he gestured. "Kid dying and all. Unlike your dying kids, this one might be fixable." He turned back.

Wilson blinked, his lips parting in hurt at the comment. "You're an ass."

Without looking, House remarked, "This surprises you?"

"Can't imagine why." Wilson glanced at the fellows; Kutner pressed his lips together and grimaced in sympathy. Wilson changed the subject. "You haven't been returning Ngyen's calls."

"I know, seeing as how I'm the one not doing it." House straightened and hopped back a step, studying the whiteboard while he capped the marker. "This concerns you why?"

"It concerns me because you listed me as your emergency contact, and he called to ask if you're still alive." Wilson stuck his hands on his hips. "You missed a PET scan."

"Yeah. I know." House twiddled the marker and twisted his upper body so that he could peer at Wilson without moving his feet. "Again: this concerns you why?"

"You lied to me about going to your appointment last week!"

"I didn't lie." House's perfectly reasonable tone further infuriated Wilson. "You asked if I had an appointment, and I said yes. You didn't ask if I actually went."

"House – "

"I told you – I'm handling it. Why are you getting so worked up? You didn't honestly expect it to make a difference, did you?"

Wilson bit his lips in irritation, then deadpanned, "I'm just worried that if your leg gets worse, I'll get less sex. Of course, that's just me." He shrugged, nonchalant. "I'm selfish that way."

Kutner snorted some coffee as he tried not to laugh, and Foreman made a face, but the other two fellows didn't react at all. House had them trained well; they didn't take Wilson's innuendo seriously at all.

House did, though. "I'm sure you could seduce a nurse or two to make up for it." He faced his board again. "Now go away. Differential, people."

Foreman sat up in his chair. "House. If you need a PET scan, this can wait."

"Hey. Dying kid trumps me in an ass-less hospital gown." House paused to shoot Foreman a speculative look. "Unless that turns you on. Then I might reconsider it."

"Oh, for – " Foreman scowled in disgust and House grinned as he turned away.

Wilson waved his hand at the fellows, an awkward frown on his face. "Could you guys give us a minute?"

"Don't move," House ground out. He had his arms half-crossed, shaking the marker between two fingers near his ear. "Differential."

"Oh, by the way." Wilson stepped closer, so that House could see him from the corner of his eye. "Your mother left fourteen messages on your answering machine over the weekend."

House shot him a look of warning.

"And another seven on mine." Wilson crossed his arms and gave House a diluted smug look. If anything could make House set aside his current project and dismiss his fellows for a few minutes, it was talk of his personal life. "Do you want to know what she said?"

House took a deliberate breath, drawing himself up as he did so. Wilson wondered if he meant to look imposing when he did that. It probably worked on other people, but Wilson knew him too well. "I'm working."

"Yeah," Wilson sighed. "I can see that." He let his eyes wander as he added, "I'll start talking in twenty seconds whether they're still here or not." He grimaced in apology and raised his brows, meeting House's eyes again.

House studied him, clearly angry, but something else smoldered in his eyes as he gazed back. He turned casual on cue, but it was a dangerous tone that he took. "Sure. Go on."

Wilson made a confused face, but before he could say anything, House kept talking.

"Wait, let me guess." House cocked his hip so that his weight rested solely on his left leg. He tapped the marked against his lips, eyes trained on the ceiling as if counting tiles. "She probably cried, and I bet she said she's sorry at least five times." He glanced at Wilson with a little smile, but it was not a happy smile. "Per message. Oh! And I bet she tried to explain herself some more too. She probably said I just didn't understand, or that I should see it from her point of view, or that she really – " His voice turned mocking – "really loves me." His face darkened. "How close am I?"

Wilson stared, speechless, as House turned away. "That's…pretty close, actually." House had called his bluff, and as usual, he won. Wilson would never dare reveal the things he had learned over the weekend, not in front of his underlings; he wouldn't do such a thing to House, and House knew it.

Kutner chose that moment to butt in. "What did your mom do?"

"Oh, please." Foreman scoffed. "If she was crying, it's probably because House was an ass. The guy can't even be nice to his own mother."

Wilson glanced at House just in time to see him curl his lips and then scrunch them in irritation, his nostrils flared.

"You shouldn't assume things," Kutner said.

"Enough!" House barked. "We have a patient, who is _not_ my mother. You can gossip and make idiot assumptions about my personal life on your own time. Differential."

Wilson stared at House, then pointed out softly, "You're shaking."

"And you're a fucking moron. Differential!"

"House – "

"What?!" House threw the marker at the white board and the cap flew off as it clattered to the floor. "What do you want, Wilson? You want me to care? I don't!" He advanced on Wilson with no care for his bad leg and had to grasp a chair back when it started to fold. "You want me to call her up and say it's okay? Because it's not! It's not okay! It's never going to be okay!"

At the table, Wilson heard someone breathe in a startled, "Whoa…" but he didn't look to see which of them originated it.

"Look." Wilson held up his hands in a calming gesture. "I didn't come here for this. Let's just…go to your office. I only wanted you to go for the PET scan."

"Then you shouldn't have brought it up." House flung himself back toward the white board and grabbed it for support. When he called for the differential yet again, his voice came out sharp and thready. He bowed his head and shut his eyes over his view of the carpet.

"House, let's go." Wilson took his arm but he wouldn't budge. "Your patient can wait ten minutes."

"You don't know that." House swallowed a few times, then shook Wilson off. "Do you four still work for me? Give me a god damn differential."

Foreman stood up but he didn't emerge from behind the table. "House, take a minute. You can't work like this."

House grabbed for a fresh marker and wrenched the cap off. "Patient's initial complaint was migraines, but they're not real migraines. His doctors – who are idiots – " House glared at his fellows without actually looking at any of them. " – got it all wrong. When you have a migraine, you look up to relieve the pain. This kid looks down."

Wilson covered House's hand with his own and slipped the marker out of it. "You're gonna hyperventilate."

House leaned toward him, but little enough that it would seem accidental. "You're not even on the list for marker privileges. Give it back." He made a grabby hand, but hissed and dropped it to his thigh a second later.

"Out. All of you." Wilson caught at House's arm with one hand and shooed the fellows with the other. "Go on. I'll page you to come back." Once they had all hurried out, charts in hand, Wilson clasped House around the waist and dragged him to a chair, which he collapsed into with a pained grunt. "How long have you been on your feet? Has it been the whole weekend?"

House nodded, then grit his teeth and fought to breathe without making a sound.

"I really do want you to go for the PET scan," Wilson offered. "That's the only reason I came over here. Depending on what sort of pain you're feeling – neuropathic, nerve, muscular – Ngyen can find a better way to treat it."

House took a preparatory breath, lost it to a startled wheeze, then took another. "You don't fucking care what sort of pain I'm in. You just don't want me taking Vicodin for it anymore." He gasped but refused to stop talking. "And you're just…being you…about the…_shit_, that hurts!"

"Let me get you something for your leg." Wilson grasped House's shoulder and went down on one knee to look him in the eye, but House turned his head. Though dismayed, Wilson asked, "Where's the Fentanyl?"

"I don't need more drugs, Wilson." House bit back some further retort, then let go of his thigh and clutched the arm of the chair for a moment. Some of the tension left him and he breathed a bit easier. He let a thin, relieved sound slip from his lips, then sat back.

Wilson pulled another chair over and sat in it facing House. "You can't go on like this, House. You need the PET scan."

"And you need to butt out," House snapped. "Haven't you helped me enough lately?"

Wilson looked down and reached for House's fingers without touching them. They were in public, after all, in a glass conference room. And House, by nature, was not a tactile person. Neither was Wilson, really, unless there was a clear reason for it, though he had an easier time of it than House did. House even shied from handshakes on occasion, and not simply to be a jerk. "You know I'm sorry for what happened this weekend. I don't know what else you want me to say."

As if Wilson weren't speaking, House burst out with, "I can't deal with this right now." He gulped in a hitched breath after he said it.

Wilson looked at him in shock. "O-okay."

"I have a patient. I need my team back so I can treat him." House started to rise but Wilson pushed him back down. After taking a calming breath, House said, "Leggo."

"You're in no shape to treat a patient right now, and you know it. You need to get some sleep." Wilson pierced him with a scrutinous look, trying to read something in the coldness of his eyes. The children who passed through his practice always hit House the hardest, though he would never admit it. "Let me take you home. If something goes wrong now, it's negligence; you've been working too many hours. Come on." Wilson stood expectantly. Sometimes, in these situations, House just followed; others, he remained obstinate enough to convince the Pope that Saint Paul was an hallucinating epileptic.

"Geez, Wilson." House gazed right through him at the white board. "Go get a PET scan, go get some drugs, go see the doctor, go home. Make up your mind."

"Come on," Wilson tried again, his voice soft and low in what he knew House would recognize as his bedside manner voice.

House shifted in the chair. "I have a patient."

"You can't keep avoiding this."

"Which 'this' are you talking about now? I can't keep track."

Wilson's hands migrated to his waist. "Whichever one you're trying to run from by obsessing over your patient. But you really do need to get some rest, and I want you to get the PET scan and schedule another appointment with Ngyen."

House tilted his head to glare up at Wilson, sprawled casually in his chair though Wilson knew that the pose did not signal ease. "_You_ want." His voice was low, defeated, but he still protested. "I'm tired of hearing about what _you_ want. And you call me the selfish one." His eyes, when he met Wilson's, seemed to carry a plea to just drop the entire issue.

Wilson's hands ended up in his pockets of their own accord and he bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes downcast. "I just…I don't like seeing you in pain."

"You don't like seeing me pop pills," House countered. "The pain is just a convenient diversion for your guilt so you can pretend you didn't just leave me like this for five years."

"You know that doesn't even make any sense," Wilson asserted, though rational or not, the words struck him deep. He _had_ left House in pain for five years, intentionally or not. "I want you to be healthy, by whatever means." Tellingly, House didn't debate that. "And what you're really pissed about is your mother. This doesn't have anything to do with the medication right now."

House sighed as his eyes flickered away. He actually looked like he might crack. "Wilson, please. I can't do this right now." He leaned to the side and dug around in his jeans pocket for an amber vial.

Wilson glanced away. "I thought you were on a schedule for that now."

"The other pills weren't working," House replied. "I told you that."

"So…you're just giving up?" Wilson couldn't keep the note of anger from his voice. "You're going back to the Vicodin, after what, a month? You have to give it longer than that, House. You're a doctor – quit being an idiot."

House's cheek twitched, but he remained silent as he returned Wilson's gaze and deliberately chewed on the pill.

"You know, crap like this is why people think you're just an addict." Wilson turned his hand palm up and thrust it toward the open pill bottle in House's hand.

Just for that, House popped in a second one and munched it. After it dissolved in his mouth, he switched out the pill bottle for his cell phone and started mashing buttons, presumably texting his team to come back. Only after pressing send did he bother to address Wilson's comments. "I don't know what else you expected, Wilson."

Wilson took a deep breath and fought to keep his voice even. "I expected you to care. Just a little bit. About anything."

House merely scrunched his face up, half apology and half exasperation. Then he merely repeated, again, "I have a patient."

"Yeah." Wilson sighed and pressed his lips together as he stood. "You always have a patient when it suits you." With a last shake of his head, he walked out, but over his shoulder, he called, "I'm not prescribing for you anymore. You can get your fix somewhere else."

* * *

Wilson barreled out of the stairwell in time to catch House clomping out of the elevator. House noticed him from the corner of his eye and rounded on him. "You – " He couldn't seem to come up with something suitable to call Wilson, and merely made a wordless sound of frustration and anger as he spun to storm away. Then he whirled back. "If that kid dies, it's your fault!"

"You know you've been on this for too long," Wilson replied. He followed when House started to limp toward the doors. "What was I supposed to do? I'm covering your ass – if you screw up now, they have grounds for a suit. You need to go home and sleep."

"You didn't have to rat me out to Cuddy," House shouted back. "You could've just dosed me and dumped me in a bed somewhere. Or in a heap on the floor with a blanket. You're good at slipping me drugs."

"House, wait!" Wilson ran into the door as it swung shut in House's wake, then shuffled out into the slush of a fresh snowfall, lab coat billowing out behind him, his French shoes squishing in the slush. He tried to remember if they were waterproofed. "I'm only trying to help you." God, how many times was he going to use that excuse? He hurried to keep up with House, his arms unconsciously raised to catch House if he slipped on the frozen ground. "Please! You're exhausted, you're hurting – I don't know what else to do. You're going to self destruct."

House stopped abruptly and Wilson skidded a few inches farther before he stopped, House's nose in his face. "Then let me."

Wilson shook his head. "I can't do that."

"Why?" House demanded. "Why the fuck does it matter?"

Wilson clamped his mouth shut, reluctant to let the L word make another unwelcome appearance between them.

Silence never sat well with House; he didn't seem to know how to react when Wilson gave him nothing to bounce off of, nothing to blow up at. In this case, his ire gave way to nerves and he looked around, perhaps for an answer.

Wilson stepped close enough that anyone who happened past would find the proximity too intimate for mere friends. "You said it was nice that I cared. Remember?"

House's eyes found his again and he gave a bewildered nod, a single downward dip of his head. Then he stayed that way, peering up at Wilson with his chin tucked.

"And then you said you don't know what you're supposed to do with it." Wilson took a preparatory breath, half anticipating rejection. "So I'm gonna tell you, because I can't watch you slowly kill yourself anymore. You're not just my friend. Okay? Caring means something different now."

House's lids lowered halfway and he started to say something, then stalled out, his eyes cast aside. "I don't want it to hurt anymore."

"Don't want _what_ to hurt anymore?"

House gave another false start, then faced Wilson, though his eyes slid away again. "The caring…thing." His gaze flickered to Wilson's just long enough to read it, then he turned to go.

Wilson caught at his arm before he could think better of unbalancing a cripple in an icy parking lot. Luckily, House came to a harmless stop, turned mostly away from Wilson. "House, let me help you." Wilson leaned in, not caring if anyone saw them. He could only imagine how few people had ever expressed affection for House, and considering his lonely life, they must have all done something to alienate him. "I'm not your parents, or Stacy. I'm not going to betray you like that."

"No, not like that. You'll find some other way." House shrugged at Wilson's hand on his arm, but Wilson didn't let him go. "I know you, Wilson. People can't act against their natures – they can't change. Not you, not me. You won't be able to help yourself, and I can't…deal with that when you do." He looked down and tugged on his arm again, in vain. "I don't want to make you a liar, Wilson."

Wilson gave a nervous laugh. "House, you can't turn me into a liar. That doesn't even make sense."

"It makes perfect sense." House turned back, but only because it allowed him to unhook his arm. "If I don't let you make me any promises, then you can't break them."

"So you're making yourself responsible for my moral well being? That's not very you."

House gave the parking lot an ironic look and quoted, "Our friendship is an ethical responsibility." He glanced at Wilson. "I care too, you know. If you did something crappy to me, you'd feel guilty, and then you'd get depressed. I hate it when you mope, so I'm saving myself the trouble. I won't give you an excuse."

Wilson let him go that time because he was too stunned to come up with the words necessary to stop him. Only after waiting for House to reach his car did Wilson return to the hospital. He honestly couldn't figure out if they had just broken up or not. He didn't like that feeling.

* * *

Seven hours passed in a daze, first with afternoon appointments and then with a long, treacherous drive to Amber's old apartment. The snowfall worsened, dropping another three inches just in the time it took him to get there. Wilson spent some minutes cleaning up, though Blythe had left nothing even remotely resembling a mess behind. Wilson wished she had; it would give him an excuse for the quiet, indignant fury boiling in a deep freeze in his innards. She helped make House the man he was today, and though Wilson loved House just as he was, he couldn't help thinking that her betrayal of her own son's trust was what made it impossible for House to express that love back, if House even felt it at all. If he was even capable of it.

Cold soup and a sandwich comprised his half-hearted dinner, and then he sat around with the TV off, holding discourse with the walls. Wilson heard his cell phone ringing from two rooms away and hurried to the front door to fumble it out of his coat pocket. Relief flooded him to see House's number on the display. He flipped it open.

"House? Listen. We can talk about this." One of his hands ended up on the back of his neck, though he didn't remember raising it there. "I've been thinking about what you said, and you're right, but it's not… Please don't just throw this away because – "

"I need you to come over."

Wilson's voice died. He knew that tone. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"You were right. Just come over."

"About what?" Wilson was already pulling his shoes on. "Are you okay?"

"About whatever you want! Please, come over."

"You don't need to bribe me with symbolic capitulations," Wilson chided.

"Fine, I hate you, you suck, and you're always wrong cuz you're a moron. Happy?"

Wilson laughed in spite of himself. House's words were choppy and Wilson could hear how labored his breathing was. "Yeah. Much better."

"I'm sorry."

Wilson almost brushed that off, but he shook his head to himself instead. "I can't drive and talk; the roads are too bad. Just stay put."

House breathed out a sigh of relief, and then the line went dead.

Wilson spent twenty minutes unburying his car, only to realize that he was boxed in, front and back, and he couldn't pull out into the street even if he went ahead and hit the cars blocking him. Which he did, repeatedly, cushioned by snow. It didn't help, but at least no one got dented or scraped. By the time he tracked down the cars' owners from the neighboring apartment buildings, a fresh plow had piled yet more snow up to pack him in. The other two car owners were actually helpful; they shoveled the snow away again, and between the three of them, they managed to get Wilson's car out onto the road. He could barely maintain traction and the snow reached his undercarriage in places. By the time he got to 221B, it was nearly midnight and he realized that he could have walked there faster.

The door yielded without use of his key, and Wilson pushed it shut as he scanned the dim living room. "House?" The entire place was dark, illuminated only by the streetlamps shining in the windows. Wilson felt about for the desk lamp and switched it on. House's backpack sat on the floor, unopened; his cane laid abandoned across the desk. Wilson gave them both a perfunctory glance before he continued to the other rooms, talking the whole way so as not to startle House.

"House?" Wilson shuffled into the bedroom and flipped the light switch. "Hey." He bent down and touched House's face to get his attention.

House seemed off in his own world, curled against the wall on the floor with his comforter drawn up around him, trailing off the bed. He came back with a start that jostled his leg, and winced. "Hmph. Wilson."

"Yeah." Wilson took his pulse and noted how violently he was shivering. His skin was warm, though sweat had soaked his undershirt and trickled to saturate the waistband of his sleep pants. "Give me a number."

"No," House rasped. He turned into the wall to hide his face.

Wilson gripped his shoulder, but he didn't ask again; he knew better. "Okay, let's get you up." Wilson stood and held out his other hand, but House only lifted his head to stare at it with a panicked expression on his face. "You can't stay here; it'll get worse." They remained in place for a few seconds longer, House hyperventilating, and then Wilson took his hand back and sank back to the floor with him. "You can't stand, can you?"

"No," House confessed. Then his breath caught again and he sucked his lower lip between his teeth.

"Same place? On the bookshelf?"

House nodded.

"Be right back."

Wilson climbed to his feet and strode out to the living room. He had to hunt for the stepstool, and in the process, he grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. That was where he finally found the stepstool – shoved into the space between the fridge and the wall, gathering dust. It had evidently been quite a while since House had needed to get at the metal box on the top bookshelf. Wilson thanked god for that.

He hurried back down the hallway with the metal box and the water bottle in either hand to find House curled over and pressing his forehead into the cool plaster. "What's the combination? You changed it. House?" Wilson set both objects down on the floor and knelt to take hold of House's left forearm. He turned House's upper body toward himself and craned his neck to get a better look at House's scrunched-up face. "Hey. I need the combination to the lockbox."

All House managed to grind out past his clenched teeth was, "I'm not an addict."

Wilson nodded, then shook his head, then said, "House, don't worry about that right now. What's the combination?"

"I'm not."

"Okay. Right now, I believe you," Wilson assured him. "You need the morphine before you go tachycardic. Come on – the combination." House started rocking back and forth and Wilson looked around the bedroom for some sort of explanation. The discarded clothes and sneakers couldn't offer him anything, though. Wilson had no idea where this was coming from. "House! Spill it."

"It's only an eight," House shot back, though the pitch of his voice seemed to argue for a higher number. "I don't have to have it."

Wilson's own breathing sped up as he watched House disintegrate into some sort of unexpected irrationality. "House, you're in _pain_! Tell me the combination."

"I don't need it!"

"Then why the hell did you call me?" Wilson wanted to take that back the second he said it, but thankfully, it didn't seem to make it's way through to House. "For god's sake, House – "

"No! I'm not an addict! I'm not!"

Wilson grabbed him around his waist and tried to muffle him against his shoulder. "Okay, you're not an addict. It's okay." Wilson rocked with him and pressed his lips to House's pulse point, hoping that his heart rate might give a clue as to what was going on here. He guessed it at perhaps one-ten, probably less. That was way too low for a man of his age hitting an eight on the pain scale. "How much Vicodin have you had?"

House shook in Wilson's arms and muttered into his shirt, "'m'not. Not."

Wilson wasn't likely to get any clear answer there either so he felt around House's flannel pants for a pill bottle. There weren't any pockets, though, and he saw no bottles in the entire room. That couldn't be. House never went anywhere, even in his own apartment, without his pills close at hand. Something was not right here. "Okay…okay, House – what did you take?"

"I don't want them!" House wailed, and Wilson hugged him closer.

"I need to know what you took – come on," Wilson pleaded with him. "I'm not gonna lecture you, I won't be mad – just tell me what you took."

"Don't remember how much," House mumbled into Wilson's shirt.

"That's okay. Just tell me what it was."

"Can't have any more," House said.

"Did you overdose? House?" Wilson tried to lift House's head and catch his eye to see if his pupils were constricted, but House's entire body was rigid and he had his eyes squeezed shut anyhow. "Shit, you did." Wilson reached around for one of their phones and found House's first. He dialed the ambulance bay at PPTH directly; being a doctor had its privileges, after all. He gave the dispatcher House's address and then set the phone aside and focused on House. "Was it Vicodin?" Wilson didn't expect anything else, but he had to ask.

To Wilson's surprise, House shook his head and talked into Wilson's shirt. "Have to stop taking it."

Wilson stared at the top of his head. "I don't understand. House, you were just taking it this afternoon."

"Don't wanna take it anymore. You don't like it. You can't let me take it anymore, or you'll leave."

"House, you're not thinking straight – "

"Yes I am!" House cried out and quaked, his fingers digging into his thigh, and then Wilson had to hold him as he thrashed and then bit back a scream.

"Okay, okay…it's okay, House…I've got you. We'll make it better." Inside, Wilson wanted to swear that House was wrong, that Wilson would never leave, but House would only argue over it, and with good cause. Wilson had walked out on him once before. "What did you take?" he asked again.

House bit his lip and tensed all over, trying not to let the low sound in his throat become anything louder. "Fen-f-fent – "

"Fentanyl?"

House gasped and then whimpered an affirmative.

"Side effects?"

"…hurts…"

"I know. Have you been experiencing side effects?" Wilson pressed.

House's left arm snaked around Wilson's waist and he turned to press himself into Wilson's chest. That was probably a yes. Anxiety and confusion, muscle rigidity, and difficulty walking based on his reluctance to try to stand – he was having a reaction to the Fentanyl, either because he had taken too much or because it was interacting with something else. Or hell – maybe it was just interacting with _him_. Wilson didn't think that House had ever tried taking it before, at least not in lozenge form. He was pretty sure that was the kind that Ngyen prescribed.

House interrupted Wilson's musings by clenching and letting out a hoarse cry, and then he suddenly grabbed for Wilson with both hands and started screaming. That was it – he'd hit a ten, and yet his heart rate was still too low. Wilson kept one hand wrapped around the back of House's neck, the pads of his fingers pressed over the pulse point on his carotid. Maybe one-twenty. House should have been tachycardic by now, screaming in pain and panting for shallow breaths. They couldn't risk administering more pain meds, and sedating him when his respirations were already compromised was just stupid. They would have to administer a nerve block and then let his system recycle itself, and he'd probably end up in hypotensive crisis because once the pain subsided, his heart rate would slow, and since it was already abnormally low, his blood pressure would plummet. Not to mention that he was probably still on warfarin to prevent any future clots, which made a nerve block particularly dangerous. This was not good.

Wilson forced all of this out of his head for the moment and concentrated on keeping House from hurting himself. He was still screaming intermittently – harsh, raw sounds that tore tears from Wilson's eyes too. Each time a fresh wave hit, he jerked against Wilson and thrashed, his grip around Wilson's body fierce enough to squeeze the air from Wilson's lungs. House tried to muffle himself against Wilson's chest but he couldn't, and Wilson could do nothing aside from adjust his grip and be there for him. What the hell was taking the ambulance so long?

After several minutes, House stopped sobbing long enough to cry, "Make it stop!"

"I can't," Wilson replied, trying to mold himself to House's frame. "The ambulance is coming. Just hang on."

House squirmed and tried to brace himself, and Wilson shifted to hold him closer. "_Please_, Wilson…"

"Just a few more minutes, I promise." Wilson tucked House's head under his chin and kept a discrete monitor of his pulse. Then a phone rang. Wilson's eyes darted about until they found House's cell. He wouldn't have answered, except that he could see Cuddy's name on the ID display. It could have had something to do with a patient. Wilson let go of House's head to fumble the phone open and get it up to his ear. "Lisa? It's Wilson."

"_Thank god. I wasn't sure you'd answer._"

"Look, you should call Foreman. House isn't – "

"_I know. I saw the call log. The ambulance managed to get into an accident on the way there._"

"What?!" Wilson actually pulled back to give the phone an incredulous look. "How – "

"_There are seven cars involved – black ice – and it's not the only accident we have to respond to. Can he wait, or is it urgent?_"

"_No_, he can't wait!" Wilson shouted. House seized his arm at that point and curled, and Wilson dropped the phone as he shrieked. House shoved his face into the crook of his arm and bit down, probably trying not to let Cuddy hear him. "Shit – I've got you. It's okay." Wilson looked at the open phone on the floor and yelled, "Cuddy, get somebody over here!" He listened to House yelp and sob, and then scream himself hoarse before he thought to pick up the phone again. The line was still open. "Lisa? Tell me someone's coming. He just switched meds, they're reacting badly – "

"_I'm trying. Wilson, have you been outside recently? The roads – _"

"I don't give a shit about the roads!" Wilson grabbed at House's hand and held him in place as he flailed and tried desperately not to scream again. "Do you hear this? He's been like this for twenty minutes. He's at a ten on the pain scale, his respirations are depressed, his heart rate's dangerously low – we need an ambulance _now_!"

"_Do you think this is helping? Wilson, I don't have an ambulance, do you understand that? They're all out on other calls, and the snow's too bad for them to reach half of those. Even the morgue units are out with volunteer EMT's. I have _no one _left to send to you._"

The panic hit Wilson at that, and his breathing quickened as he searched the room for anything useful, anything at all. "Lisa – "

"_I'm worried too, I am!_" She did, in fact, sound like she was on the verge of tears. "_But it's not my fault he sucks down his Vicodin like candy._"

That was too much. It didn't even matter to him at that point that House stopped taking his new meds. Wilson felt himself baring his teeth and then he was screaming into the phone, "He didn't overdose, you – you – " No epithet seemed suitably harsh enough at the moment so he just left it hanging. "He's trying to stop taking it, do hear me? He's being responsible for once! The new meds aren't working, he's having a bad reaction – You know what, fuck your ambulances. I'll get him there myself."

Wilson snapped the phone shut and only stopped short of throwing it because it wasn't his. To his surprise, House pulled himself together enough to say, "It's not her fault."

"It has to be somebody's fault," Wilson replied. He worked himself out from behind House and winced each time House bit his lip and fought to remain silent, which he couldn't. "I'm sorry for this," Wilson told him sincerely. "Try not to pass out, okay? Your respiration's dangerously low as it is."

"I went to med school t – "

House folded in on himself and then Wilson crashed back to the floor to hold him as he flailed. It took too many second for Wilson to realize that he was seizing. "No…no, no, no…" Wilson held his head to prevent him from bashing it against the molding. "Okay, it's okay…I've got you…" _It's not okay_, he thought, though he continued mumbling the opposite into House's ear as the convulsions tapered off. How could there not be an ambulance? How was that shit even possible?

By then, Wilson was crying hard enough that he almost missed the cell phone ringing. He scrambled across the floor to grab it, impotent and furious and scared shitless. It was PPTH dispatch again. Wilson got ready to scream at Cuddy, if only to alleviate his feelings of utter uselessness, but when he opened the phone, he heard Chase's voice. It didn't register at first.

"Hey – somebody answer!"

"Chase." Wilson gulped and crawled back to House's prone form. "He seized."

"Is he breathing?" Chase sounded surprised.

Wilson's fingers somehow found a pulse point – slow but steady. Then he held his watch face up to House's nose and exhaled in unbridled relief when it fogged. "Yeah. Chase, the ambulance isn't coming."

"I know. I was here for the call. Tell me what you need."

"You're…you…"

"I have Foreman's SUV, four wheel drive. We're off shift, and we think we can get to you. Give me a list."

Wilson shook himself and then rattled off medications and equipment. It sounded like Chase wrote them down; he repeated each item, then clicked off without saying goodbye. Wilson laid the phone aside and did his damnedest to detach so that he could monitor House's condition and keep him stable until help arrived. It wasn't easy, but he kept on talking, if only for his own sake.

--tbc


	14. Chapter 14

"So I was thinking green. You know, like cucumber." Wilson shifted on the floor and glanced at the clock again. It had only been a minute since his last check, so he readjusted the pillow he had dragged down to cushion House's head and leaned back against the wall again. "Not like the skin. That's too dark. I mean that light green. You know. After you peel the skin off and you get to the meaty part of it. Sea foam, sorta…green." Wilson looked up again. Chase had called back to say they were pulling out of the PPTH parking lot; that had been at about one in the morning. It was one-twenty now. Wilson had just finished getting House into a clean pair of flannel pants; seizures and full bladders don't mix. "Anyway, it would match your piano. Well, your piano's black, so it pretty much goes with anything. And I swear your old couch still smells like pee. Which is your fault, by the way." A couple of Wilson's fingers strayed to play with the sweaty curls at House's temple. "Your pulse is too low, buddy. It's only…it's only fifty right now."

Wilson trailed his hand away from the carotid and shook House's shoulder. "Are you with me yet? Okay, so. Um. Oh, hey! I'm gonna be a contributing editor for a new textbook on cancer treatment. It's geared toward third year med students. They asked me to do a section on pediatric oncology. So that should be fun. Or, you know. As fun as writing about terminal kids can be. Not that they're all terminal, it's just…what's the point of a textbook on treating cancer if it's…right, yeah." Wilson groaned and refrained from checking the time. He made sure House was still breathing, though – shallow and slow. At least he wasn't screaming anymore. Of course, if the alternative was just to stop breathing altogether... Wilson shook himself. Not an option; House would be fine. He was breathing just fine.

"And, uh…don't hate me, but I mentioned that I know you, and they wondered if you'd be interested in doing a section about misdiagnoses. You know – stuff that presents like cancer, but isn't. Actually, I think the guy might have wet himself the second I muttered your name. Makes me feel like one of your groupies or something. You know – if you can get in with James Wilson, you'll have a shot at House!" Wilson looked down and smoothed House's shirt over his ribs again; it was still damp with sweat, and Wilson could smell the faint sour odor on the air. "So, um, if you get a call about it, do me a favor and play nice. I really want this, okay? It's been years since anybody asked me to contribute, and if you call him a troglodyte or something and mess this up for me, I'll never cook you pancakes again."

Wilson stopped to listen. "Wait. I think I hear tapping." He glanced around the room, then grimaced and stilled his foot. "Never mind. It's just me. You know, I'm always complaining because it seems like I can't tell you anything without getting mocked, but I really think I deserved a random attack of your sarcasm for suggesting that you buy a sea foam couch." Wilson scooted closer so that his leg rested along House's back. "Can you wake up?" He rubbed House's bicep; the limp body beside him was uncanny. He didn't touch House like this. Even when House was asleep and Wilson stole cuddle time, it was cautious cuddle time. He always operated under the sure assumption that House would catch him caring, and then mock him for it. Which he should, by all means. Wilson didn't quite know what to do with himself when House just laid there, completely unresponsive, no tension in his limbs to betray the conscious mind beneath, just this disturbing pliancy in otherwise heavy skin. Even passed out drunk, House could slur something unintelligible, a token attempt at refreshing snark.

Wilson sighed. "Okay. It's been almost half an hour, and I'm pretty sure you took an accidental overdose of narcotic pain meds. You have to wake up, House. Come on." Wilson shook him hard, then rolled him onto his back. "Hey. If you don't wake up, then…then I'll sit here and…and care, and you can't stop me. I'll probably dribble it all over you. You'll get a rash." Wilson gripped his shoulders, then moved to cup his face. Stubble scraped his palms and the pads of his thumbs as he ran them over House's cheeks, pulling at warm, scratchy skin. "I'm serious. Wake up."

When he got no response, Wilson checked his pulse again, which held steady between forty-five and fifty bpm. Too low. "House." Wilson balked at himself when that came out as a whine. "Okay. Okay, so…this isn't okay. House, come on. You have to wake up now." He laid a light slap across the side of House's face. "If you're playing possum, I swear to god, I'll put itching powder on every piece of clothing you own." Wilson pretty much picked up House's head, then repositioned it on the pillow and peeled his eyelids up instead. He grabbed a pen light from the night stand; House kept strange things in strange places. "Good. Pupils are even and reactive." He stared, expecting an acerbic come back. "_Wake up_, you asshole! It was just a god damn seizure!"

Wilson ducked his forehead and rested it on House's for a second, then fell off his knees to rest on his hip. He checked the clock again; it was one thirty two. Carefully, Wilson started to roll House back onto his side, into the recovery position, just in case, but House stirred. "House! Are you with me? Come on – open your eyes." Wilson shook him and House tensed a bit. "That's right. Wake up."

House rolled his face away and gave a weak moan. "…ow…"

"Yeah, I know. Chase and Foreman should be here soon." Wilson reached for the damp washcloth he had discarded earlier and wiped House's face down again. "Can you talk to me?"

"Mrm." House blinked but didn't focus right away. Then he took a breath and fumbled a hand toward his leg.

Wilson caught at House's fingers and held them against House's chest. "Look at me. House, come on." Wilson wiggled a finger in front of House's face, waited for him to look at it, then drew his gaze to himself. "Recognize me?"

"emer eye."

"What?" Wilson tried to keep the concern from his expression. "House, who am I?"

"Em. Are. Eye." House tried to wriggle his fingers out from under Wilson's and move them back toward his leg.

Wilson's brows crinkled. "Em…an MRI? You want an MRI of your leg?"

"No, stoop'd…patient." Groggy and post-ictal, and House could still snark. "Kid needs an-em-ar-eye. Spine."

Wilson settled back on the floor and rolled his eyes. "Only you. Unfortunately, I left both your patient and the MRI machine in my other pants. It'll have to wait. Do you know where you are?"

"Mmph." House shut his eyes and tried to roll over but Wilson held him still. Then his voice went up an octave, still soft and thready. "Owow…Wils'n…" He pulled his hand free but Wilson snatched it out of the air again. "No…hurts, it hurts…"

A thud and a muffled curse sounded from far away, and then Wilson heard the apartment door open. "Doctor Wilson?"

"Chase! We're in the bedroom." Wilson turned back to House and took his other hand when he started groping at Wilson's arm. "House, I need to get you oriented. Come on. Do you know where you are?"

"Hmmno. Took too much crappy med'sin." He started to shift his right leg, then stopped with a sharp breath.

"No kidding. Tell me where you are."

Chase shuffled in at that point with an EMS bag in one hand and a portable defib unit in the other. "Is he with it?"

Wilson gave a worried shrug, then returned his attention to House while Chase rifled through the bag for an opiate antagonist. "House, where are you?"

House managed to glare at him with half his cognition impaired. "Floor."

"Don't be a smart ass," Wilson chided, but he smiled like the dope he was right now.

Chase pulled out a vial and showed it to Wilson. "Naloxone?"

"Yeah." Wilson tightened his grip on House's hands. The more he woke up, the more his brain registered the hurt. "He said he took Fentanyl, but I don't know how much. He was taking Vicodin earlier today. Probably couldn't think straight enough to realize he'd overdose. Where's Foreman?"

"Bringing in an oxygen tank and some other stuff." Chase drew up a dose without looking at House at all. "Stats?"

Wilson switched over to autopilot – to doctor mode. "I don't have a BP cuff but it's probably low; that must be what set off the seizure. His respirations are depressed, pulse hovering around fifty, sometimes less." Wilson glanced at the doorway when he heard Foreman in the living room, then had to look back down because House started whimpering again. "I think he still takes warfarin, and he's been on some other meds lately. You brought Phenol for the nerve block? His BP's already low. I don't know if it's a good idea to give him something that will lower it even more."

Chase glanced up from the Naloxone. "The only other drugs we could try are opiates, which the Naloxone will knock out, or anesthetics. I brought norepinephrine with me. It's either Phenol, or let him scream all night."

Wilson nodded, unhappy but resigned. He kept his fingers intertwined with House's while House moaned low in the back of his throat, too muzzy to have a good handle on what he was doing.

"Hold him for a second." Chase shuffled closer with the Naloxone syringe held safely out of the way.

Wilson leaned forward to keep House still so that Chase could administer the Naloxone. House didn't cooperate very much; when he felt Wilson's weight descend across his hips and waist, he yelped and thrashed to get him off. "Hey, stop, it's okay. We'll give you Phenol in a second; just hold still for this." House shied and tried to pull his arms free. "House, knock it off. We're trying to help."

Chase held the needle out of the way when House started gasping, unable to keep oxygenated. "He's gonna pass out if he keeps on like this. Let's do the nerve block first."

Wilson let up and House curled a bit, panting and half out of it, but he stopped thrashing. He was mumbling, though, which seemed odd, but he didn't go for his leg. He merely folded up on the floor with his hands tucked to his chest. Chase handed Wilson the syringe, and Wilson set it out of the way on the night stand.

Foreman trundled in at that point, dragging an oxygen unit behind him. "Hey. Your car just got towed."

Wilson shot him an incredulous look. "_My_ car?" He grumbled something in Yiddish. Honestly, he wasn't even paying attention to what he said, but it sounded menacing in his own ears, which was all he wanted. "House? We're giving you Phenol. Need you to round your back."

House cringed as Wilson climbed over him to switch places with Chase. "You didn't…get here," House gasped out between shallow but labored breaths. "You weren't gonna get here." He was still irrational to some degree, and stoned on top of it, and in pain.

"Of course I was gonna get here," Wilson replied. He glanced between Chase and Foreman. "He's been a little out of it. Anxiety, confusion, uncoordination. Probably a combination of the Fentanyl and the effects of the seizure." To House, he said, "I'm gonna move your legs, okay?"

House jerked away as Wilson reached for his bad leg, then hissed something unintelligible that ended in a sob. "No, I didn't do anything."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say you did."

Foreman knelt down near House's feet. "How stoned is he?"

Wilson bit off the retort that came to mind at Foreman's derisive tone. "Just help get him into position."

"Nooo…" House grabbed at Wilson's shirt and tried to push him away, but he was too weak after the seizure. Wilson dragged House's knees up toward his chest, exposing his lower back, while Chase prepared an injection of Phenol. Once House was positioned, Foreman pressed his ankles against the floor to keep him there, and Wilson focused on calming House down.

"House?" Wilson got his arm under House's right armpit and around his shoulders, then struggled to hold him in place. "Listen to me. You have to hold still. We're gonna make it stop, okay?"

House hiccupped, his fingers clenched in Wilson's shirt. "I didn't do it. I swear I didn't do it."

In a halting, uncertain voice, Wilson replied, "I know."

"Please, I didn't do anything," House insisted, his voice small and scared.

Wilson glanced at his equally confused colleagues, then asked House, "Do you know where you are?"

"I'm good. I'm being good," House said. His fingers clawed in between Wilson's buttons. "You don't have to, you don't, I don't need it."

"House?" Wilson leaned further over, but only because House was pulling hard enough on his shirt to rip buttons off in a few seconds. "House, it's Wilson."

"Nnnoooo…" House's denial turned up at the end and turned into a harsh sob as he felt the tip of the needle poke against his spine. He arched his back to get away from it and Chase pulled back with a muttered curse. House's sharp movement strained against Foreman's hand on his calves and jostled his leg. "Ow! No, I didn't do anything, no…"

Foreman muttered, "What the hell?"

Wilson spared him a glance but House was tugging on his shirt again and trying valiantly to wiggle from the grasps of three men. "House, listen to me. We're giving you a nerve block. It'll stop the pain. Do you understand? You can't move around like this."

"I'll be good, I'll be good," House chanted. He sounded like a terrified little boy.

Foreman exchanged a glance with Chase, then seemed to debate whether or not to ask, "Is he having a flashback?"

Wilson ignored that and held House's head between his hands. "House. Greg, you're in your bedroom. You overdosed on Fentanyl. Do you remember? Then you had a seizure. You're post-ictal. Nothing's wrong – we're not punishing you."

House latched his hands around Wilson's wrists and tried to pry his hands away. "Please don't, please, I'm – " His breathing hitched and he dissolved into something nearing hysterics. "I'm sorry, I'll make it better, I won't – you don't have to, I learned – I won't do anything ever, please, dad, I don't need a lesson, I'll be good, I'm good…"

Chase exclaimed, "Fuck."

"Okay, it's okay." Wilson twisted his wrists until House lost his grip, then hugged him into the floor, his lips poised over House's ear so that the others wouldn't hear him. "House, it's Wilson. Come on, you know me. Your dad's not here. It's just me, just Wilson. Snap out of it."

House's nose ended up in Wilson's shirt and he cried hard enough that Wilson could feel the dampness soak through. "Nononononono…"

"Wilson, you have to get him to hold still," Chase said.

"I'm trying!" At Wilson's tone, House flinched and then struggled against them in earnest. "Shit – House, no! We're trying to help."

Foreman pretty much laid across House's legs to hold him down, then warned, "He's gonna hurt himself."

"We can't risk a sedative," Chase pointed out.

House kept repeating nonsense and denials, and Wilson's eyes stung as House began begging not to go to the bathroom, and then he started crying something about snow and being cold, and Wilson's shirt was sopping wet from him sobbing into it. Every attempt to get his limbs free jostled his bad leg, and his pleas fractured into soft cries of pain and desperate whimpers. Finally, something tenuous in Wilson broke, and he yelled, "Stop squirming or it'll just be worse for you!"

It worked. House froze, his body a shivering mass of tension sheened in a panicked sweat. He didn't fall silent, but the only noise he made consisted of a low sort of hum.

Chase stared at Wilson for a second, incredulous, then quickly administered the Phenol, followed by the Naloxone. A small dose of norepinephrine completed the cocktail. Once he'd dabbed at the injection sites with a cotton ball, Chase looked at Wilson and said, "I can't believe you just did that."

Wilson hid his face in House's neck and simply kept on murmuring apologies and platitudes to him, the kind he had sometimes heard House say to himself when he thought no one was around to witness him talking himself down from the fear that came with unrelenting pain. He threw in a couple reminders that it was just him, just Wilson, and the rigidity in House's muscles eventually gave way to a fine shiver. Wilson looked up at the tap on his shoulder and accepted the oxygen mask that Foreman held out to him. House's fingers remained curled in Wilson's shirt, trapped between buttons, as he pulled away just enough to slip the breathing mask on and adjust the straps over House's ears. Then Wilson settled more comfortably on the floor, pressed up against House in a manner sure to reveal just how intimate they were, and took up his soft litany again. House burrowed into him. At this point, Wilson really didn't care if Foreman or Chase figured out that they were together, and not just friends with occasional benefits.

A few minutes passed while Chase checked House's BP and Foreman satisfied himself that House's respirations had improved. Wilson waved them off when they asked if they should try to get House into bed. After they shuffled out, Wilson untangled House's hand from his shirt and stood to gather all the pillows and blankets from the bed. He arranged them so that House could be comfortable on the floor, then waited for House to fall into a slumber of some sort, maybe a residual opiate stupor or just post-ictal exhaustion. Either way, House eventually mumbled Wilson's name, sighed, and then dropped off, his limp body drenched in fresh perspiration.

A catheter would have been overkill since House had emptied his bladder during the seizure, but just in case the nerve block failed to wear off in a couple of hours, Wilson found a towel and arranged it discretely under the blankets. Then he took a set of vitals, which had improved considerably, wiped the salt tracks from House's face, and switched off the lights. He left the door open a crack on the way out, and headed on wobbly legs to the living room.

Chase held up a take-out menu when he walked in. He looked a bit like a first year resident on ER duty for his first seven car pile-up. "Is this place really open twenty-four hours?"

Wilson nodded, numb, and stumbled into the kitchen.

"It's just a block away," Chase went on. "Foreman and I figured we could go pick up a pizza."

"That's fine," Wilson called from the sink. He absently turned the water on and set about soaping up the few dirty dishes scattered across the counter. It looked like House ate about a dozen peanut butter sandwiches since he came home. Wilson wondered when the breakthrough pain had hit, because House got too nauseous to eat when his leg acted up.

"Do you want anything?"

Wilson turned to look at Chase, who had followed him and now stood poised beside the kitchen island. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him what you heard. He'd be…mortified is probably an understatement. And he's been having a rough enough time lately."

Chase nodded too readily for Wilson's comfort, but he figured that watching someone like House disintegrate, after thinking him a colossal jerk without cause for five years, could probably shake a guy up. "So, uh. You two…it's an official sort of thing?"

"It's not public, exactly." Wilson faced the sink and resumed scrubbing at a jelly-encrusted knife. "But yeah." He paused to find a place to set the knife to dry. "Thanks for coming, by the way. You didn't have to."

Chase stepped closer. "Are you okay?"

Wilson looked at him again. "Yeah. Why?"

"You, um." Chase pointed to Wilson's face and Wilson wiped automatically. He rubbed his fingers together, slick and wet. Tears.

Without a word, Wilson shut off the faucet and left the room. He heard Foreman come back into the apartment, probably out checking on his car or getting more supplies, or something; Wilson didn't care what. He shuffled to the bathroom and shut the door before switching on the light, only to realize that the mess he had skimmed over upon arriving was the Fentanyl packaging, plus House's Vicodin bottle and the Xanax from his medicine cabinet. Wilson stooped to pick up the Vicodin; it didn't look like House had taken any more since that afternoon in the diagnostics office. He had, however, taken some Xanax. And the Fentanyl, but only one lozenge; the second package sat unopened on the edge of the sink.

Out of habit, Wilson tidied the room, replacing items in their proper places and mopping up splotches of what might have been vomit that missed the toilet. It didn't make sense to him, this scene. It also occurred to Wilson that if House had taken the Fentanyl around the same time that he called Wilson, then he should have suffered a bad reaction hours ago. Wilson should not have found him conscious.

He looked at the one pill bottle still clasped in his hand: Xanax. House hadn't called because his leg hurt; he had called because he was freaking out about something. The spasm or cramp or whatever had prompted the breakthrough episode – that came later, perhaps half an hour before Wilson finally got there. Probably less. Something had happened, though Wilson couldn't imagine what would send House into enough of a panic to first call him in that tone of voice, and then willingly down an anti-anxiety medication. House hated psych meds; they made him feel fuzzy.

Wilson took a moment to run his hands under the sink and then splash the recalcitrant salt from his face. Then he pocketed the Xanax and emerged. After checking to make sure that House was still resting and stable, he made his way through the bedroom in search of House's discarded phone. He had to fish it out from under the night stand. The call log revealed nothing of interest aside from a forty minute call to his mom, so Wilson set it aside, checked House again, and labored to his feet, his knees cricking in protest.

Foreman ignored him when he padded into the living room, though his disinterest seemed a practiced ruse. Wilson rifled through House's desk, then his mail, and finally made his way to the answering machine. It blinked four messages and Wilson hit the play button without thinking that there were other people in the room. He erased the two calls from telemarketers, and then Kutner's voice came on. The message cut off; House had picked that one up. The fourth message cycled with a time stamp of nine forty seven that evening. House had called Wilson just before ten.

A woman's voice came on. She sounded like an otherwise kind person, but anger shook her voice to choppy pieces. "_Gregory, pick up the phone. Your mother just called me in hysterics. I can't believe you! How dare you try to blame John for all your screw-ups – your – your drugs and for ruining your own damn career all those times you got fired. You should be ashamed – John was your father, and you - I can't believe you ran a paternity test! As if it matters whether you were his son or not. He raised you and loved you anyway. You should show some respect! Instead you attack his good name – the things you accused him of – you – how could you? He's a decorated veteran, a hero, and you can't just let him rest in peace? I can't believe you would say such things to my sister, your own mother! She did nothing but help you, all your life, and you repay her by accusing her of being a child abuser?_" The woman's voice turned soft and pitchy. "_And then just to humiliate her even more, you run off and – and screw some _guy_? Gregory...she couldn't even talk, she was so upset! I had to hang up so she could call an ambulance, she thought she was_ – "

The line clicked and it sounded like someone nearly dropped the phone. House's voice came on. "_Aunt Sarah?_" Then the message cut off.

Wilson stared as the answering machine switched off and the message light blinked out. He looked up; Foreman was staring at the black television screen, his leg bouncing in a nervous tick, and Chase merely stood off to one side with his cell phone in one hand and the pizzeria menu in the other, pretending that he hadn't just heard that. Wilson watched him resume dialing and then wander out the front door. He started ordering in the hallway, pulling the apartment door shut behind him. Foreman stood up a second later, started to say something apologetic, then dropped his hands and beat a hasty exit as well.

Wilson just stood there in the slowly disintegrating wreck of House's life and wondered how his friend could have gone so long like this without making more than a series of token attempts on his life. But more than that, Wilson wondered how he could have spent fifteen years as House's best friend and never noticed that House was just as messed up now as when they first met. Nothing ever changed, especially not people, just as House always claimed. And that was the problem. Things needed to change.

* * *

Wilson hovered outside House's bedroom door with the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the hollow ring that stretched across wires and empty space. He could see most of House from his vantage point near the threshold, and he watched House's ribcage expand with each breath he took, unconsciously timing his respirations against the tick of the leaky bathtub faucet.

Cuddy picked up after what seemed like an eternity. "_Wilson? Is he alright?_"

"He'll be fine," Wilson replied. He made no effort to conceal the world-weary overtones in his voice, watching as House's oxygen mask fogged and cleared, fogged and cleared.

"_Oh, thank god. Look, James, I'm sorry for some of the things I said before. It's been a real mess tonight. I just want you to know I had no right to yell at you. You had a medical emergency, and I'm sorry I lost my temper._"

Wilson scrubbed the side of his face and observed a twitch in House's left foot. Myoclonic jerk. Just a side effect of sleep. "Yeah, well, I'm…not. I'm not sorry," Wilson clarified, just in case that wasn't clear. Cuddy made a perplexed sound over the phone. "I'm sick of people doing that to him," Wilson stated. "Acting like he can't have a legitimate complaint, like he brings everything on himself." Wilson sucked in a breath and willed his voice to remain level. "You have no idea what's been going on here, Lisa."

Cuddy let a frustrated sigh escape her. "_Maybe if someone would keep me better informed, I could – _"

Without thinking, Wilson snapped, "Maybe no one bothered to inform you because it's none of your god damn business." He inhaled to calm himself, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in the process. But he did not take it back.

Silence rang over the phone, deafening over the static of a snowy connection. Finally, Cuddy offered a halting, "_You may be right._"

Wilson's temper flared again at that. "There's no 'may be' to that, Lisa. You're not his doctor – you're barely even his friend at this point. You're his boss. That's all. And you're not even a good boss. You put a fucking trip wire in his office. What the hell were you thinking?"

"_Uh-b…James, what's going on?_"

"You know what? No. Never mind. I'm not going to bother trying to make you understand." How could he explain without saying point blank that House didn't fight back against that attack because in his mind, it equated to abuse? House had actually told Wilson that he refused to retaliate because he didn't want it to escalate. Because sitting back and taking it meant she would run out of steam faster than if he tried anything in his own defense. Wilson took a breath and held it for a few seconds. That incident was long over and done with. No reason to drag it out again now. Once he had control of himself again, he said, "I only called because I need a favor."

Cuddy let out a derisive snort. "_A favor. You want a favor after all of that?_"

Wilson rolled his eyes in irritation; the expression carried none of the affection that House usually got from him.

The line hissed for a few seconds. White noise. "_Fine. What do you need?_"

Wilson peeked into the bedroom to reassure himself that House continued to slumber in peace. "You still have House's mom's address on his emergency contact list, right?" At Cuddy's affirmative, Wilson continued. "I need you to call the hospitals in her area. She may have had a heart attack; I don't know for sure. All I have is part of a voicemail from House's aunt. Just find out where she is, and if…and her condition. Please."

Cuddy grumbled something under her breath, then said, "_That's what started all of this? You could have just said that from the start._"

Wilson bit back his urge to tell her not to take that tone with him; she'd had a kid for all of three months and she seemed to think that gave her free reign to smother the entire world with her new mothering instincts. He took a moment to realize that half his problem was his own irritation and lingering anxiety; he was just snappish right now. "Look, I have to go. I'd appreciate it if you could put a rush on it so that I can tell him something by the time he wakes up."

"_Okay, sure._" Cuddy started to say something, probably a sign-off. "_Tell him…_" She sighed. "_Never mind. I'll make some calls._"

"Thanks," Wilson said. He pressed the end button with more firmness than necessary and pushed the bedroom door open far enough that he could slip inside.

Chase had left the EMS kit open near the foot of the bed and Wilson grabbed the stethoscope and BP cuff before he slid down the wall to sit beside House with his legs stretched out in front of him. He toyed with the medical equipment for a while, adjusting the oxygen tubing as if he were an addict and fiddling was his fix. Then he sighed and let his head thump into the wall behind him.

House made a small sound that the oxygen mask muffled, and Wilson tilted his head to look at him. When he mumbled again, Wilson leaned forward and touched the tip of his shoulder. "House? You okay?" Slits of blue blinked at him, and then widened in a panic. It took Wilson precious seconds to understand House's frantic groping at the blankets covering his legs. "It's fine – your leg's right there. Look." He flung the blankets off, more hindered by House's dopey fumbling than anything else, then heaved him into a sitting position so that he could see for himself. "Phenol, remember? We gave you a nerve block."

House flopped back onto the floor and groaned, a sound hollowed by the breathing mask. Then he rolled back onto his side, facing Wilson, and drew the comforter back up over his shoulders.

"I called Cuddy," Wilson offered. "She's gonna find out how your mom's doing."

"Fucked up," House replied. The mask deepened his voice to a metallic echo. "I fucked up again."

His tone was hard to decipher thanks to fogged plastic and the hiss of the tank nearby, but Wilson gathered what he needed to. "You didn't fuck anything up, House."

"Shouldna bothered," House muttered. His shoulder blocked Wilson's view of his face. "Not like it matters anymore. Shoulda kept my big mouth shut."

Cautious but determined, Wilson let his gaze slide away as he inquired, "Is that what your aunt told you? To keep your mouth shut? House, you have every right – "

"Shut up, Wilson."

For once, Wilson did. It wasn't worth arguing over, not right now. Maybe not ever. He really _didn't_ know what was best for House this time; Wilson could only be there for him when he needed it. Luckily, the phone interrupted his brooding before his own big mouth could spew out some more well meant, inane commentary that House would just yell at him for. Wilson dug in his pocket to pull his cell out and flipped it open. "This is Doctor Wilson."

"_It's just me._" Cuddy. "_Is everything still good on your end?_"

"Yeah, it's fine." Wilson glanced at House again, then decided that his gaze was better spent fixed on a bed post. "Did you find her? That was fast."

"_Yes, and good news. I was able to talk to her ER doctor. It was a very mild myocardial infarction. She took aspirin before the ambulance arrived and the clot must have dissolved. They're keeping her overnight for observation, but if nothing shows up on the tests, they'll release her tomorrow evening. I have a phone number if House wants to call her – direct to her room. A neighbor's there with her right now. The doctor told her to expect a call._"

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. "Hang on. Lemme find a pen." He climbed awkwardly to his feet and stepped over House to fish a pen and a scrap of paper from the nightstand drawer. "Okay. Go ahead."

"_Tell House it's not his fault. It wasn't stress induced._"

Wilson stiffened and glanced back to see if House was watching him; he was not. "How…?"

"_Her doctor had to speak to Blythe's sister since they were on the phone with each other when it happened. Someone named…Sarah? Apparently, she was quite vocal about the lead-up. And she felt the need to reiterate everything she said to House._" Wilson could hear her moving around on her end of the line, a nervous sort of shuffle that betrayed what she thought of all of this new information."_The doctor seemed to think she was looking for sympathy or validation or something._" Cuddy gave a rueful laugh and Wilson could picture her crossing her arms with half a feminine shrug that merely swished her shoulders. "_He told her to find some other ear to blab in._" A short silence ensued. "_I had no idea. I knew he hated his dad but I thought it was just normal father-son crap._" She breathed over the open line. "_James?_"

"Yeah." Wilson shook himself. "Sorry. Just…processing." Even though he really wanted to know what Sarah had said, there were more important things to do right now. "Look, uh…I can't really talk right now. House is… Can I have the phone number?"

Cuddy took that to mean that House was in the room and eavesdropping, and read off a phone number. Wilson jotted it down under a couple of scribbles that resembled spiroketes. After she repeated the number for Wilson to confirm, Cuddy added, "_I won't say anything about it. I know how he is; he wouldn't want anyone to know._"

Wilson closed his eyes for a moment because her voluntary silence saved him the need to deal with the fallout of House realizing that his personal life had been paraded by his degenerate aunt. "Thanks. I really, really appreciate that, Lisa." They exchanged polite necessities and then hung up, and Wilson came back to sit on the floor with the paper. He extended it to House along with the cell phone. "She's – "

"I don't care." House labored to turn over and present his back to Wilson, but his leg thwarted him. He ended up lying supine, his head turned away.

Wilson stared at him. "You don't want to know how your mom is?" House shook his head and Wilson slumped back against the wall, adding the phone and slip of paper to the pile of medical accoutrements that already occupied his lap. He didn't quite know whether to call House on that or not. Of course he cared; caring was what got him into this mess on the floor. And there was _nothing_ that House didn't want to indulge his curiosity in.

After a minute or two, House said, "Chase was right."

Wilson looked down at him, his hands folded around the stethoscope. He couldn't tell if House were morose, or if the muffle of the breathing mask merely made him sound that way. "About what?"

"It hurts less to just not care."

Wilson made a sympathetic face, but only because House couldn't see it. "No it doesn't."

House snapped, "And I suppose you know that from experience?"

"Yeah, actually." Wilson shrugged against the wall in the hopes of relieving the ache in his shoulders and neck. "It creeps up on you eventually, and it's worse. And then you don't quite know what to do with it."

House turned his head just far enough to peer at Wilson from the corners of his eyes. "Is that why you take anti-depressants?"

"No." Wilson shrugged. "I take them because they make it easier to pretend that I still don't care. They're just another way to avoid the real problem."

"What's your real problem?" House wondered.

Wilson lifted his shoulders again. "Dunno. That's why I keep taking them." He looked down at his hands, aware of his face pulling down in a frown that encompassed his entire head. "That stuff you said in the parking lot…I don't know if…Did you dump me?" He lifted his eyes to see House's reaction.

"I was mad," House replied. He turned back towards the other wall. "Didn't mean anything."

Though Wilson didn't think that was entirely true, he let a weak smile sneak across his mouth. "So we're good?"

House gave a start, which in turn made Wilson jump. "MRI." He struggled to sit up and snatched the cell phone from Wilson's lap. As he dialed, he swore something under his breath about his stupid fucking leg and stupid fucking Ngyen's stupid fucking medicine. He held the breathing mask away from his mouth so that he could use the cell phone, but he didn't take it off. Then he threw Wilson an apologetic look that made Wilson think of the emoticon with the colon and the slash, one corner of House's mouth drawn up and to the side. Animation infused House's frame when the other party picked up his call, as if he could extend his usual boisterous presence into the diagnostics office. "Why the hell aren't you in the patient's room?"

Wilson occupied himself by sticking the stethoscope in this ears. He took advantage of House's bad posture; House was slouched forward over his numbed legs, his back rounded. When Wilson touched the scope to his dorsal ribcage, House cast a confused look over his shoulder. Wilson presented him with a wan smile and House scowled as if Wilson's behavior were inexplicable.

"Okay, fine, whatever," House snapped into the phone. "Just send one of my other idiots in to sit with him." He waited for the other person to say something, and Wilson could hear the anger creeping through House's heartbeat in the ear pieces of the stethoscope. "What do you mean, they went home?" A pause. "That's what I pay them for. Call them, and tell them if they don't come back, they're fired."

Wilson smacked House's shoulder and House rolled his eyes as he straightened so that Wilson could listen to his chest.

"I don't care if there's a driving ban. They're doctors. They're exempt from it." House scrunched his face up in annoyance at whichever minion he was talking to. "Because I'm your boss. I don't have to make sense. I want one of you in the kid's room at all times, and once the slackers show up, send him for an MRI."

"Move," Wilson said, tugging on House's arm. It was blocking half his sternum.

House lifted it up like a chicken wing, tipping his head back so that the oxygen mask still hovered over his nose and mouth. "I know that, you moron. You think I'd just arbitrarily order another one? It'll take a team of UN diplomats to convince the parents to consent. This time, I want images of the cervical spine."

Wilson's inspection must have finally reached the annoying stage because he shrugged sharply and glared at Wilson to make him leave off. Or else he realized that Wilson didn't need to listen quite that much, and that he was using the examination as an excuse to touch him. Wilson needed that reassurance of feeling House solid and warm beneath his fingertips right now, and he flared his nostrils as he backed off.

"Look, just do it. I'll be back in the morning." House swore at the phone and snapped it shut. Then he looked at Wilson. Without any warning, he leaned over and wrapped Wilson in an almost violent embrace, actually dragging him closer across the lacquered wooden floor.

Wilson felt like one of those cute little animals in the old cartoons where George squeezes it until its eyes pop out. All he could do was grunt a mild protest, his breath squished out, before House let him go, just as rough in the release as in the initial hug. Wilson stared at him cross-eyed. "What the hell was that?"

"I comforted you."

Wilson burst out laughing. "You're an ass."

All House said to that was, "I know." He seemed pleased to be called such, and carefully arranged himself back on the floor with pillows heaped all over the place. "Place feels like a Turkish harem."

"I could help you into bed," Wilson offered. "Chase and Foreman should be back soon with pizza."

House paused in his arrangements and pushed himself back upright. "Thought I imagined them," he mumbled. Tellingly, he failed to make eye contact after he said it.

Wilson got the message: forbidden subject. "What's up with your patient's parents?"

"Here." House handed Wilson the edge of a sheet and pointed up to the clothes hooks on the wall above him. "Hang that. Just the edge. It'll stay better if you hang something else on top of it."

Wilson made a strange face but he was accustomed to House's eccentricities. "Why do you want them in there? You think something might happen?" He pushed himself to his feet, dragging the sheet with him. "New symptom?"

House shot Wilson a wary look and insistently pantomimed hanging the sheet. "His parents aren't very receptive. To anything. Every time I send the musketeers off to get a test, they argue over it. Like the test might do something bad to him." House rubbed at his bad thigh out of habit, stared at his hand for a second, and withdrew it. He leaned back to peer upside down at Wilson. "I'm not even ordering anything crazy, for once. They act like just testing the kid will make him a freak or something."

Wilson sighed and finished anchoring the sheet with a rolled up pair of pants that he jammed down across all the hooks. "Some parents can be overprotective."

"That's not what this is." House smoothed out the other end of the sheet, then strained to lean forward far enough to stuff it between the mattress and box springs. "There. We're camping out."

Wilson lowered himself back to the floor with an indulgent smile. House did that so matter-of-factly, like building a blanket tent in the bedroom was a natural thing for two grown men to do. "You don't want the parents left alone with him, do you. You're thinking…what? Munchausens by proxy?"

"I dunno." House shrugged, irritated and unsure of himself. Then he made a face and admitted, "I don't like the way the father talks about him." He chewed at the inside of his cheek.

Though cautious, Wilson asked, "Are you sure you're not projecting?"

House flared his nostrils and looked down to pick at the comforter bubbling over his legs. "It takes one to know one."

Wilson slouched to toe a stray corner of the sheet back between the mattresses before saying, "Quit being cryptic."

"The kid's affect is all wrong." House glanced at Wilson from the corner of his eye. "I recognize it."

Wilson nodded and looked away. "Have you told Cuddy?"

"Haven't told anybody. No proof." House settled back and tried to appear at ease. He was too tense to pull it off. He knew that Wilson noticed this, and he rolled his eyes at the tent over his head.

"You could ask the kid," Wilson suggested. "You do have this uncanny ability to pry deep, damning truths from unsuspecting bystanders."

House cast him a sidelong look. "I said _proof_, Wilson. Not stories spewed out by some outcast kid. Otherwise, it's just his word against the dad's." Too much sarcasm crept in to saturate his tone as he kept talking, his eyes trained over head. "They'd be as likely to send him to some shrink to talk to him about his pathological lying and how acting out for attention is wrong."

Wilson merely looked at him. They made eye contact long enough for House to realize that he had slipped, and for Wilson to recognize it in the sudden blankness on his face.

"Don't you dare bring it up," House said, his voice low and forced.

Wilson's eyes flickered away and he repeated, "You could ask the kid."

House studied him a bit longer, then looked away with a sigh. "Wouldn't matter. I don't actually think they hit the kid or anything. Just…words."

"Words can be just as – "

"Yeah, whatever." House waved his philosophical rebuttal out of the air between them. "Freedom of speech."

"I don't think the founding fathers envisioned verbal abuse as a protected, god-given right."

House shrugged. "I dunno. Some of those knee-sockers were big fat bastards." At Wilson's raised eyebrow, House added, "What? Don't you watch the History Channel?"

"Yeah, but I'm surprised you do. There aren't any monster trucks or half-wits with power tools. Or cartoons."

House made a faux-insulted face and remarked, "I can be cultured too, you know." He shifted against the floor, his face a parody of serious. "And cartoons can be deep, man. You ever watch the Smurfs? Don't tell me there wasn't something profound in having an evil warlock create the female of the species just to lead a village of men off to be boiled into stew."

Wilson turned slowly to regard House's profile beside him. "You are _seriously_ disturbed. You know that, right?"

A grin stole over House's face. Wistful, he replied, "You wouldn't have me any other way." He cocked his head like a dog listening to wisps on the wind. "I smell pizza."

Wilson furrowed his brow and sniffed, but he had to wait another twenty seconds, at least, before he heard the apartment door open and close, carrying quiet footsteps through the living room. He looked back at House. "How the hell did you do that?"

House shot him a smug grin and refused to divulge his secret method. He turned wary a moment later, though, when one of the other doctors tried to pad down the hall without making a racket on the unfamiliar floor. Chase stuck his head in the door and took in the sheet tent without so much as batting an eyelash. Snow residue caked his jeans from the knees down, and he had removed his shoes to reveal sodden socks. "Anybody hungry?"

"You're gonna catch cold," Wilson pointed out, flicking a finger at Chase's wintered apparel.

"It'll dry." Chase indicated the sheet stretched taut over their heads. "Nice fort."

House tilted his head, his diagnosing mask in place. He was probably gauging the likelihood of Chase trying to talk to him about anything non-frivolous. "Jealous?"

Chase snorted. "You wish." He came farther into the room and held out his hand for the stethoscope and BP cuff. Wilson passed them over. "How are you feeling?" He crouched over House's perfectly numb legs, perhaps staying out from between them on purpose.

"Like I just spent almost four hours on the floor."

"We could get you into bed," Chase offered with a frown. He placed the stethoscope to House's chest and moved it around at intervals. "You're numb, not paralyzed."

House held his arm out for the BP cuff, strangely docile. "And leave the fort? Never. You'd invade it and steal my harem."

Chase blinked at him a few times, then hooked a thumb at Wilson. "That's okay. You can take your harem into exile with you. He's got a bit too much mileage on him for my tastes."

House let out a uncensored guffaw which ended in a snort, and Wilson simply threw up his hands. "Thanks, Chase," Wilson muttered.

"I don't even want to know what all that means," Foreman called from halfway down the hall. He clomped up to the doorway and then paused with one eyebrow raised. "Right. So I should bring the food in here?"

"Wait," Wilson said. He grunted as his knees protested the speed with which he chose to rise. "I'll help. House, you want anything?"

Deadpan, House replied, "A turban." He became suddenly more animated. "And my backpack and my laptop."

"No way. You're eating, then going to sleep," Wilson said.

House drew his face together in mock disbelief. "Really? You think I'm gonna do that just cuz you used your doctor voice?"

Wilson flipped him off on the way out of the room and followed Foreman to the kitchen, his nose attuned to the sweet scent of grease that wafted through the apartment.

Foreman glanced back, trying to hide his discomfort, and remarked, "He seems cheerful. Back to normal?"

"House doesn't do cheerful," Wilson replied. "You know that."

Foreman shrugged and made his way around the kitchen island to unpack a bag of Styrofoam containers that sat next to an extra large pizza box. "I thought maybe this was his out-of-the-office normal."

Wilson shot him a wry look. "Even around me he's still House." Then his mouth drew down; he could feel the dimples dissolving from his own cheeks. "He's over compensating, I think. He, uh…remembers at least a little bit of what happened. The, uh, flashback. Or whatever that was. Delusion, I don't really know for sure."

"I'm going with post-ictal hallucination compounded by an accidental overdose of a narcotic pain medication." Foreman paused in the middle of laying food containers out in a neat row, his hand almost petting the lid of one marked as a salad. "It _was_ an accident, right? He wasn't just getting high? Or something worse?"

Wilson looked away, but he didn't know quite where the lines between friends, coworkers and physicians blurred. "He had a panic attack," Wilson admitted. "And then it converted to leg pain, and it probably cramped or spasmed on top of it… He's been seeing a specialist, mixing meds under some new plan. I don't think it's going too well."

"Ngyen," Foreman inserted. "I remember that from the DX room." He sighed and let a self-deprecating half-smile appear on his face as he shook his head. "I honestly thought he just liked the pills. I mean, I know it hurts, but he's so flippant about it."

"Defense mechanism." Wilson busied himself finding plates and silverware.

"A wounded dog baring his teeth at the vet." Foreman chuckled mirthlessly. "I should know better. House always says everybody lies."

Wilson peered over his shoulder. "What, you thought he meant everybody except himself?" He scoffed. "You've been working with his insanity for five years now. You should know better."

Foreman nodded, his hands splayed on the island. "I know." He threw Wilson a cautious look. "I guess I judge people too quickly. Like that homeless patient you made me see."

Wilson turned around with a pile of dishes in his arms. He knew he was wearing his lost puppy face because it tugged on the corners of his mouth, but he wasn't sure why. "Oh. The, uh, rabid amateur comic book writer."

"Yeah." Foreman pushed off the island and piled the Styrofoam salad containers on top of the pizza box. "Forget the plates. House will just mock you and then complain about having to wash them later."

"Right." Wilson fumbled in place for a moment, then abruptly turned to set the plates back on the counter. He grabbed a roll of paper towels instead and started out of the kitchen.

"Doctor Wilson?"

Wilson turned back to find Foreman pressing his lips together, clearly uncomfortable but determined to speak his mind. "I'm here. If you guys, you know. Need help. Ever." Foreman did that thing where he tried to pull off contrite, but the arrogance never quite left. "I was wrong about him."

Wilson sucked his lips between his teeth and responded with a grateful nod. At least Foreman tried to make good on his mistakes, even if it took forever to get him to realize that he had made one.

On the way back to the bedroom, Wilson detoured to the bathroom to grab a towel. At Foreman's inquisitive eyebrow, Wilson explained, "Turban."

Foreman just rolled his eyes.

* * *

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Which was actually a terrifying occurance, considering that House was involved. They camped out on the bedroom floor with greasy food as if they were all old friends accustomed to making small talk with each other in a childlike setting. House's cheer was strained, but Wilson was pretty sure that he was the only one who noticed. It was surreal. Wilson kept stealing nervous glimpses of House in the middle of smiling these easy sorts of smiles that Wilson honestly couldn't remember ever seeing on House's face, not even before the infarction. They appeared to be genuine, but it was exactly that convincing quality that left Wilson certain that House was a much better actor than he'd ever given the man credit for. House only went to such lengths to appear happy when he was hiding something from Wilson. That, and he could tell that withdrawal was setting in, courtesy of the Naloxone, though the symptoms were mild at the moment.

The joviality ended around dawn when the nerve block started to wear off well in advance of the Naloxone. All three of them refused to give House more Phenol because he _was_ still taking Warfarin to thin his blood. Of course, that went over poorly and Chase and Foreman retreated to the living room so that Wilson could deal with House's foul temper. There was no dealing, though; House either needed pain meds or a distraction, and he insisted on going to work even though Wilson offered him all sorts of lewd incentives to just stay home in bed for the day. At least his muscles weren't cramping again; it was just his normal pain level, sans medication to dull it. Unfortunately, that didn't make House any less of a bear.

On top of that, House continued to extol the virtues of not caring if his mother was even still alive, and he covered his ears like a brat throwing a tantrum every time Wilson started to tell him anyway. House fixated on anything else just to interrupt Wilson's attempts to steer the conversation. Everything that came out of his mouth consisted of 'the patient' this, and 'MRI' that until Wilson finally yelled, "Fine! I'll drive you to your damn office."

On the inside, though, Wilson wondered how close House was to snapping under the pressure; House didn't handle emotions well, and he never knew what to do when his cleverly crafted lack-of-a-personal-life blew up in his face. Denial reached new heights of definition when it came to House avoiding something he couldn't cope with under his usual modus operandi.

Foreman agreed to taxi them all to the hospital, sleep deprived as they all were. Nothing could be that simple, though; House could barely walk, yet he refused help, and only after Wilson had let him hobble alone down the four stairs to the sidewalk, did any of them realize that the parking spaces in front of 221B were all empty.

"They towed your car," Chase pointed out with a poorly hidden smirk.

Foreman threw up his hands and yelled, "I can't believe this!"

"There are signs, idiot." House glared at Foreman, his face pinched. "Snow bans."

Wilson cast Foreman a speculative look. "You watched them tow _my_ car, didn't you?" He was about to ask whether that might have prompted Foreman to be careful about the no-parking signs, but Foreman rendered his point moot.

"Yeah. Where do you think _I _parked?"

Wilson made his statuesque _if I can't say something nice, I shouldn't say anything at all_ face, but House went ahead and regarded Foreman the way he might look at a carnival sign swearing that the mermaid in their tent was really real, and totally worth the five dollar admission fee. "I actually hired you?" House asked. "You're a moron."

Wilson didn't bother commenting on the fact that House didn't see a need to mock him as well, considering that he had ignored the posted snow ban signs too. Instead, he smiled; it was like receiving thanks from House for dragging himself out in the middle of the night to rescue him.

Chase pointed it out in his place. "Wilson got towed too, you know. You're saying he's _not_ a moron?"

"No," House replied as if it were a foregone conclusion. He tried to downplay the rest of his explanation by dragging out the big sarcasm artillery. "But he has a better excuse. He was all dripping with concern and misplaced affection."

Foreman shot him an incredulous look. "So, you think we dragged our sorry asses out in a blizzard at two in the morning because we _don't_ care about you at all?"

"Why would you?" House shook his shoulders at their, in his view, inexplicable behavior and turned away to pull out his cell phone. "I'll call us a cab."

"Why would we care?" Chase asked dumbly.

House glanced over his shoulder, truly clueless. "Didn't I just say that?"

"Don't bother," Wilson mumbled too softly for House to hear. "He doesn't get it."

Foreman's brows jumped in disbelief. "That's just sad."

Wilson simply nodded, then looked down as House tried to press cell phone buttons with shaking fingers. Withdrawal had set in long before this but so far, House hadn't reacted much. Cold sweats in an already chilled apartment didn't attract anyone's notice except Wilson's. The same went for the fine shivers that had coursed through House's frame all night; only Wilson was permitted to touch him once the medical crisis passed, so neither Foreman nor Chase had felt them. Mumbled expletives drew Wilson's attention back up and he sighed as he sloughed through the snow on the sidewalk to pluck the phone from House's grasp. "I've got it."

"I can call a cab, Wilson." House made to snatch his cell phone back, but Wilson had already twisted out of reach. It didn't really phase House; he scowled in the opposite direction and felt about in his pockets while Wilson made the call.

As Wilson hung up, he glanced over at House to see what he was doing, then started. "Hey."

House paused with the Vicodin bottle in one hand and a pill in the other, breathing unsteadily and irritated. "What?"

Wilson gestured to the bottle, his palm up, slightly incredulous. "Opiate antagonist."

House looked at the pill as if he hadn't realized what he was doing. Then he took it anyway.

"House!" Wilson tried to grab the bottle from him.

"It's got acetaminophin in it too," House snapped, hiding the bottle in his jeans pocket before Wilson could get his hands on it. "I have a headache."

Wilson pursed his lips and nodded in exasperation. When House kept right on glaring in bull-headed defiance, Wilson said, "I have aspirin, you know."

"Less yummy."

Wilson stared as House turned to contemplate the mostly white street. "You're sucking on it, aren't you. I can hear it when you talk."

"Oh, shut up." House jabbed his cane into the snow and then grimaced as he stepped wrong.

"No." Wilson glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Chase and Foreman were at least pretending disinterest, then said, his voice just above a whisper, "You just overdosed and you're already treating it like a joke. I thought you _didn't_ want me thinking you're an addict."

House spun back to face him and hissed, "I'm in pain!"

"Oh, you're always in pain! Quit using it as an excuse."

"An excuse," House echoed. His voice grated out on a razor's edge.

Wilson glanced away. He hated having these arguments, always over the damn Vicodin. "Look." He held up his hands in he hopes of pacifying House just a little bit. "I know your leg hurts. I don't question that. But when you take those things knowing damn well that there's Naloxone in your system and that they won't do you any good..."

"Exactly." House levered himself a few stops away, balanced precariously on his cane on one leg. "Means I can't get high off of them either."

"What..." Wilson shook his head, bewildered and worried as well as pissed off, his most common reaction to House. "Then..." He had nothing, so he shifted his weight from foot to foot and then threw up a hand in surrender. The hand ended up on the back of his neck as he waded back to Chase and Foreman.

The cab didn't arrive for another fifteen minutes, by which time House was even crankier after standing around in the cold. They made the driver detour to a donut shop and Wilson climbed out to buy them all coffees and bagels. He bought the driver a coffee too just because he was Wilson and he was addicted to being nice. House had retreated into his sullen, crabby self by the time they pulled up to PPTH's entrance, and though he continued to refuse help walking, he consented to Wilson's hand near his elbow to catch him if he slipped. The sidewalk had been cleared repeatedly, judging from the mounds of snow piled on either side, but there were still several inches covering the concrete.

Wilson left House in the diagnostics office with his new MRI films, suppressing a sigh as he walked out to the familiar cadence of House on a verbal rampage, lambasting his underlings for screwing up and daring to hand him fuzzy images. Wilson made a mental note to find him again near noon with a new Vicodin script. The Naloxone should have worn off by then, and if Wilson opened with a drug offering, then House might be more receptive to going for the PET scan that Ngyen had ordered. He didn't like bribing House with Vicodin, but he didn't know what else to try. That was irony at its finest - using the habit to trick House into breaking the habit. At least that approach usually worked. It shouldn't, though; House had to know that giving in merely proved Wilson's point about him being addicted.

He was expecting House to show up in his office of his own accord to demand lunch, but the polite knocking took him off guard. Wilson set his pencil aside and rose slowly. Had he forgotten an appointment? He opened the door and then stopped with it only partially ajar. "House." His brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"

House appeared acutely uncomfortable, canted to the left with his cane dug into the linoleum and one hand behind his back. He looked like crap, though not as bad as he could have. Bloodshot eyes, skin glowing with a fine sheen of perspiration, hunched a bit more than usual. Still in withdrawal, which meant still trying to shake off the Naloxone. He was probably here for an argument or just to rail at Wilson some more. The attempt at civility in House's tone took Wilson off guard. "I'm no good at this kind of stuff, so just shut up for a minute."

Wilson blinked and started to reply, then closed his mouth. This was an interesting development.

"Okay." House took a deep breath and his eyes stuttered away to look at something else. "Stacy said I was being an ass, so – "

Incredulous, Wilson interrupted, "You called Stacy?"

"No, she called me. Has a client or...Something about patient confidentiality in this thing I wrote." House shrugged somehow and glared at him. "Don't worry; she thinks you're some pretty young thing, regrettably stupid, who had the misfortune to be misled by my charms. You're supposed to _not_ talk."

"Right." Wilson held up a hand. "Sorry. You were being an ass. Continue."

House shifted his weight. "Okay, so she said I started the fight, so – "

"Wait, I'm still stuck on the part where you asked your ex for relationship advice." Wilson leaned on the door handle and regarded House suspiciously. "And you've never tried to smooth things over after a fight about your pills."

House stared back, his open expression betraying once again that he had no idea why Wilson didn't think the same way that House did. "You thought I dumped you."

Wilson tilted his head and lowered it at the same time. Oh. They were rewinding all the way back to that. Wilson shifted his weight in time with the redirection and asked, "And you think that constitutes a fight?"

"Um." House canted a bit farther to the left and his eyes darted past Wilson to glean a proper response from the knick knacks littering his shelves. "Yes?"

"So, just so I'm clear, you're apologizing?" Wilson knew that his entire demeanor showed his dubiousness, but he couldn't help it. They had just finished arguing over House's Vicodin use; he shouldn't be civil again until at least midnight.

"Look, just shut up and listen," House snapped, which only served to highlight his discomfort and uncertainty. "Stacy said you were doing normal couple things like caring and butting in and…all that other crap you were doing that really pissed me off. So…I'm supposed to just deal with it or something, but I don't have to like it. But I should be nicer about not liking it."

"Do you even know what you're saying?"

"I wrote it down but I lost the paper. Shut up."

Wilson tried really hard not to laugh. "Yeah. I'm listening."

"Okay, so apparently, this is all my fault." House gestured toward Wilson with his elbow and added, "But since she assumes you're a girl, it only makes sense that it would all be my fault." He paused. "But that's not the point. She said that it's my fault unless I want to risk you figuring out that I'm an abhorrent jerk – her words – in which case I can argue over culpability all I want."

Wilson propped himself against the door jamb and peered at the ceiling with an amused smirk. "I'm confused. Is this still an apology?"

"Shut up already." House bit his lip for a moment, pranced as much as he could on one leg, and then went on. "Apparently, I'm supposed to make up for being an ass with some sort of big, sappy romantic gesture. So." He moved his bad leg again, eyes anywhere but on Wilson, then drew his left hand out from behind his back and extended it to Wilson. "Here."

Wilson screwed his face up in a desperate bid not to laugh. House had stuffed a dandelion into a plastic cup. "This is your idea of a big, sappy romantic gesture? A weed in a urine sample jar?"

"Hey, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a dandelion in New Jersey in March?" House shook it and Wilson relented, accepting the peace offering.

Wilson turned the interesting gift around in his hand. "This is… I don't even know what this is."

"It's not the prettiest flower, and most people don't look twice at it, but it'll grow anywhere and it's almost impossible to kill. So, you know. Turn that into a couple-appropriate metaphor."

Wilson looked up and tilted his head. "Okay. _That_ was sweet."

House grumbled and shook his head. "Shut up." Then he abruptly reached into his pocket and held out a credit card. "And you might want to file a fraud claim. According to the chick at the flower shop, some weird guy stole your credit card number to make a bunch of questionable internet purchases. I couldn't use it."

Wilson narrowed his eyes but he was smiling. "I'll send you the bill."

"For the record, I'm not weird. I'm just misunderstood."

"Noted." Wilson looked at his pitiful little yellow weed. "House – "

"You were right." House ducked his head and peered up at Wilson, like a hopeful little boy. "I wasn't objective anymore. I needed to go home." His gaze slid away down the hall. "Thanks."

"You're…welcome." Wilson sounded awfully hesitant about that one, but House trying to act like a decent human being was unsettling.

"Not finished." House drew himself up straighter and said, "I rescheduled the PET scan for tomorrow, and I'll give the whole medication thing another month."

Wilson shook his head. "You don't have to do that."

"I thought you wanted me to."

"I do, but – "

"Then shut up." House looked down, his cane mashing bits of rubber into the linoleum of the hallway. "I don't want to fight with you anymore. If that means trying this..." He fished for a suitable noun with one outstretched hand. Evidently, he couldn't find one because he settled on, "...thing for another month, then I can do that." His eyes shot too quickly to Wilson's, and Wilson stopped himself from taking a step back. "But after that, if I decide it's not good enough, you don't get a say in it."

"Okay." Wilson nodded in eager agreement. Anything to get House to just try. "Whatever you want after that. I'll keep my mouth shut."

"Good." From House's expression, he didn't believe Wilson capable of keeping his opinions to himself, but for now, it seemed good enough. House took another breath and Wilson turned away a bit, wondering what else there could be. "I'm not…comfortable with…with saying certain things. So I'm not going to."

Wilson nodded readily. "Okay. That's fine." House was being too candid and it was really starting to make Wilson nervous.

"No it's not." House shuffled back a step, more self conscious now than since he had started this conversation. "I don't want you saying that you love me, okay? I don't want to hear that. I already know it, I just… Don't say that word to me. Alright?"

Wilson glanced down and found himself looking at the dandelion. When he raised his head, House was busy staring at a the wall. "I'm not like your parents."

His voice thick, House replied, "I know. That's why I don't want to associate you with that feeling." His eyes tracked to find Wilson's.

Wilson nodded. "While we're being frank…" He licked his lips and just hurried to say it. "What happened Saturday, on the couch, I can't do that again. It…it felt too much like abuse."

"It wasn't." House tried to shrug it off, but Wilson could tell that he wasn't comfortable talking about it.

"I know," Wilson replied. "But I don't want to associate you with that feeling."

House looked at him sharply, then softened. He sucked on his lower lip, then nodded once. "Okay. I get it."

Wilson let out a huge breath, then forced a smile to emerge from behind the awkwardness. "So. Coming in?" He backed up and held the door wide.

"Going out," House countered. He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the cafeteria. "I have to con you into buying me food now. All this heartfelt crap makes me itch."

"And your antidote is to pretend that you actually _are_ an abhorrent jerk?" Wilson smiled; he could feel something small swelling in his chest, and from House's rapidly morphing expression, it showed. "Right, sorry." Wilson held up his hands to ward off whatever scathing comment House might come up with. "I'm a sap. I'll stop now."

"Hey Wilson?"

"Yeah?" Wilson set the dandelion on a shelf and shrugged into his lab coat before leaving his office behind. He looked up to find that nervous, fidgety House had made another appearance.

"You don't hafta stop." He met Wilson's gaze and instantly turned snarky. "But if you try holding my hand or any of that other fluffy crap, I'll beat you with my cane."

Wilson's mouth twisted up in a failed attempt to maintain a straight face. "I always suspected you were a secret romantic."

House hefted his cane. "Don't tempt me."

"Oh, please," Wilson returned. "Like you could catch me."

"I thought I already did."

Wilson smirked. "Aha! Q.E.D." He held up his I-scored-a-point finger. "You are a secret romantic."

House's face screwed up in irritation. "Shut up, moopsie."

--TBC


	15. Chapter 15

Wilson made his way down to Cuddy's office only after delivering up his entire plate of french fries to House's practiced thievery. They both knew that Wilson only bought the fries so that House would abscond with them, but the game was important to them. Unfortunately, House didn't eat most of what he stole. Withdrawal. By the time he left the cafeteria, he looked to be on the verge of revisiting what little he did eat. If the antagonist kept messing with him for much longer, Wilson would stop at the pharmacy for some metaclopramide to ease the nausea. In the mean time, House had received a page that his patient was cataplectic again, and Wilson watched him hobble off to see it for himself. Thus occupied, House would be less likely to find out that Wilson had made this visit, and by extension, less likely to figure out why.

He rapped his knuckles on the glass and waited for Cuddy to wave him in. "Doctor Wilson. How are you?"

Wilson held up his hands to ward off her friendly exterior for the time being. "I have to say something first, okay?"

"Okay." Cuddy drew the word out so that it conveyed every ounce of confusion, curiosity and exasperation that she felt at his abruptness.

"You have a problem with this. Me and House." Wilson didn't wait for her to either acknowledge or deny that. "It's not a question. Look. I'm apologizing for not telling you sooner because I did sort of try to foist him off on you at first. Back when it started, I thought…I thought it wouldn't mean anything. That's why I told him to go on a date with you, and that's why I tried to trick you into asking him out. I just didn't realize that he was responding to me on account of it being _me_. I thought it was just a proximity thing, or an easy access thing. Okay?" He bobbed his head, expecting an outburst of some sort. "Not that I'm easy. Just…I was an idiot."

Cuddy looked down with a sigh, then stood up and came around the desk to face him. "I appreciate that. And you _are_ an idiot, but a lovable one." She crossed her arms, unconsciously going on the defense. "And no, I don't like it. I don't think the two of you are any good for each other, not after you guilted him into nearly killing himself."

Wilson's brows fell down between his eyes, taken aback. "What?"

"The deep brain stimulation could have killed him," Cuddy replied severely. "He only did that in the hopes of making you feel better. Nobody actually thought it would do any good." Cuddy scoffed, but it seemed directed at herself. "I didn't even think he had it in him. House doesn't sacrifice self."

Wilson couldn't speak for a moment, and his eyes twittered about the edge of Cuddy's desk. "I wasn't thinking straight."

"I know." Cuddy stepped closer and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "But it seems like you're never thinking straight when it comes to him." She smirked at her inadvertent pun, and he gave a weak smile in return. "That's not good for him, or for you."

Wilson nodded, but he said, "Things are different now. I know better."

"I hope so." Cuddy patted his arm and withdrew to perch against her desk. "Not that I've been much better lately." She sighed and regarded him openly. "Remember when Cameron conned a date out of him?"

"Yeah." Wilson folded his arms, unsure of where this was headed.

"Everybody kept warning Cameron that she was courting the devil, and we all tried to talk House into being nice enough not to devour her soul."

Wilson chuckled at the remembrance. "Yeah."

Cuddy tilted her head. "And you were the only one who warned Cameron not to hurt him. No one else even thought to look out for him; just you."

A miniscule sadness made Wilson suck his lips between his teeth and peer at Cuddy.

"I'm playing your part, James. You're the only person left that he'll let near." She straightened and stood close enough that even with a six inch disparity in height, he felt intimidated. "No one knows you better than he does, and he decided to take a risk on you anyway. Don't hurt him. If you do, he _won't_ recover. There's no maybe to that this time."

Wilson swallowed once and nodded. His voice barely above a whisper, he replied, "He's not just some girl I met on the street. It's different."

"It had better be. If this ends badly, there won't be a _you_ there to pick up the pieces." Cuddy raised her eyebrows to underscore her point, then turned and swished back around to sit behind her desk. "So, what did you need?"

Wilson's mind fell off kilter at the abrupt change in subject, and he fumbled to find his previous intent. "Ub – I, uh, need a favor. Another favor." He gestured with one hand, palm up. "If you don't…mind."

Cuddy shrugged. "Depends on what it is."

A deep breath fortified Wilson to ask this, mainly because he knew the implications if House ever found out. "You have military hospital contacts, don't you? You were able to get your hands on their MRI films once."

Hesitantly, Cuddy replied, "Yes."

"I need…" Wilson trailed off to reconsider, then decided to just go ahead and ask. He could deal with the fallout later. "I need House's medical records from the base clinics where his dad was stationed, if they haven't been destroyed by now. And if…maybe school records? Any incident reports or anything that might have thrown up a red flag. Just anything you can find, really."

Cuddy was silent for several seconds. When she spoke again her voice was low and wary. "Why?"

"Somebody should have dug into it a long time ago, and didn't," Wilson replied. "And now half his life is…is crumbling. I can't just sit by and watch that."

"And your solution is to dig into his personal life behind his back?"

Wilson looked down because she was right to sound skeptical, and he had refused to put it so bluntly up until then. "He won't do anything to help himself – he probably doesn't think he has a right to. His aunt convinced him that he nearly killed his own mother just because he wanted to talk about what happened. He has a right to be angry, to yell at her, to say whatever the hell he wants to her. But he won't. He'll bury it again, and it'll fester… I swear, he was doing better before this all came out, and now it's all shot to hell. If there's anything that I can use to…I don't know…prove…"

Cuddy leaned back in her chair, uncomfortable and doubtful. "Wilson, I know you mean well. But you're forty years too late for that. You need to deal with the things he's going through now. Do you honestly think that dredging up his scrapes and boo-boos is going to serve any purpose?"

"It might. It depends on what there is to know." Wilson shoved his hands into his pockets and bounced on the balls of his feet. "House solves cases by uncovering every secret and well-intentioned lie in every corner of his patients' lives. He operates that way because it works, and not just in his practice. Lisa, I need to do something. He won't talk about it, he's…ashamed, I think. He doesn't even want to know his mother's condition." Wilson took a deep breath and released it in frustration. "He can't keep going like this for much longer. I have no idea what he needs from me, but he needs something."

Cuddy sat forward and crossed her forearms on her desk. "He needs you to be there. That's all. Listen when he decides to talk, _if_ he decides to talk; don't jump to conclusions, don't assume you can fix it… James, stop being an idiot. You've done psych rotations. You _know_ you can't force him to face this."

"_I'm_ not the one forcing him," Wilson snapped. He could feel the heat rise under his collar, but until then, he hadn't realized how angry he was. "His family is. That bitch aunt of his pretty much called him a worthless sack of shit to his face. He thinks 'love' is a dirty word. He doesn't comprehend the idea that people might give a crap about him. And you can toss that DBS fiasco right onto the table with the rest of it, because if he gave a damn about himself, he would have said no." Wilson threw a choppy gesture up into the air between them, his throat bubbling over a mirthless laugh. "Hell, he probably thinks that Chase and Foreman only showed up last night because _I_ needed help, not because _he_ did. How am I supposed to fix that? If you already have an answer, then tell me." He splayed his hands on her desk and leaned forward, intent. "Because I need to know. It breaks my heart every time he gives me that bewildered little boy look of his, like I must be out of my mind to want to show him affection."

Cuddy blinked at him several times, her face sympathetic, then sighed. "All right." She pursed her lips in unwilling surrender. "I'll see what I can find."

Wilson breathed a sigh of gratitude and straightened. "Thank you."

"Yeah, whatever." Cuddy shooed him in fond exasperation. "Go do something useful."

With a mirthless smile, Wilson took his leave. Somehow, he would figure out the proper way to handle this situation. In the mean time, he had rounds to make.

* * *

Wilson ran across House again in the clinic, though not by design. He had just signed in for his shift when nurse Brenda pulled him behind the counter. "You know I hate House as much as the next person, right?"

"Um. Yes?" Wilson glanced around for a clue as to where this was going.

"Yeah, well, he's being pitiful in an Old Yeller sort of way. I don't want to send any more patients in there."

Wilson lowered his head and nodded. The Naloxone must have still been in his system. With a sigh, he asked, "Where is he?"

Brenda pointed to exam room one, then moved off to pretend complete indifference. Wilson knocked even though he knew that House was alone, and received a muffled exhortation to get lost. Wilson scrubbed at the side of his face where sleep threatened to creep over the rest of him, then went in.

"I said – oh." House blinked at him, then bent back over his leg and swiveled the stool away from him. "Next time, just put me on a fucking ventilator. Naloxone was invented by Al Qaida."

"If the ambulance hadn't wrecked on the way to your apartment, I would have." Wilson walked up behind him and tried to lay a comforting hand between his shoulder blades. House shied away from him. "Is it cramping?"

"No." House shook his head to underscore that. "Just fucking hurts."

"You weren't this bad at lunch," Wilson pointed out. He moved around to House's front and crouched down, one hand on House's left knee to balance himself.

House glared at him from under darkened brows. "I wasn't quite at the withdrawal point at lunch." He sucked in an unsteady breath. "Go away, Wilson. I'm not pleasant right now."

"You're never pleasant," Wilson quipped. "Would a massage help? Ingrid moved away, but I can almost speak Spanish if it gets you in the mood."

House looked at him cross-eyed. "Dude. We're in the clinic."

Wilson made a face at him. "I said 'massage,' not wild monkey sex." Then he paused. "Wait. You didn't…you know. With Ingrid. Did you?" Silence answered that one. "House?!"

"You bought me a hot masseuse. What the hell did you think would happen once she started rubbing me down and dangling her breasts over my nose?"

Wilson balked and lowered his voice, paranoid over nonexistent eavesdroppers. "You had sex with Ingrid?"

House appeared perplexed. "Didn't you?"

"_No!_ I was married!"

"Didn't know that ever stopped you." Wilson must have looked either painfully shocked or comical, because House rolled his eyes and said, "No, I didn't have sex with the hot Spanish masseuse. The mind was willing, but alas…"

Wilson's eyes widened as he huffed out a lungful of relief. "I never thought I'd be glad to hear that you couldn't get it up."

"Actually, you're the one who ruined it," House said. "I couldn't stop picturing _you_ with her. It totally killed my libido."

"Oh. Well." Wilson's eyebrows danced as he tried to settle on an emotional response to that. "Whatever. So, how about it?" He shrugged his shoulder at the exam table and House's eyes tracked in that direction as well. House took a resigned breath, then nodded. "Stay here for a second." Wilson straightened and slipped out of the room long enough to ask Brenda to sign him back out from clinic duty, then returned and locked the door behind him. He also drew the blinds on the observation window, then he paced back over to House's hunched form. "Come on."

House lifted his head to regard Wilson's outstretched hand, and then consented to take it for once.

Wilson ended up standing behind House with one hand around his waist, the other under his elbow, all but hauling him upright by brute force. He could feel spots of perspiration on House's back and flanks, and Wilson needed to keep his arm around him because even with the cane, House's leg threatened to give out. "It's that bad?"

"I hate it when you ask stupid questions."

"Right." Wilson pushed him up onto the exam table when he couldn't manage it on his own, then poked him in the sternum to get him to lie back. "Brenda hinted that she wanted to have you put down."

"Lame horses get to have their brains blown out," House replied, stifling a grunt as Wilson slipped his hand under his right knee to help him situate his leg. "All I get are pills that don't work, and a whorish oncologist."

Wilson treated him to a wry smile while he tugged at House's shoe laces. "I'm flattered. Truly." Once he had slipped the sneakers off and set them on the floor at the foot of the exam table, Wilson reached for House's belt.

House grabbed his hand and practically crushed his knuckles together. "We're in the clinic," he pointed out again.

Wilson looked at him as though he were daft. "And I'm supposed to give you an effective massage with your clothes on?"

"In the clinic?" House demanded, incredulous.

"Okay." Wilson tugged his hand free and regarded House critically. "I think we have different definitions of 'effective massage.'"

"Damn right." House glanced at the locked exam room door, then shifted just enough for his pose to turn suggestive. "Though I wouldn't complain if you were willing to grant me my version."

"Really." Wilson studied him doubtfully for a second, then shrugged. "It's almost four-thirty; the patients will all be gone soon. And Brenda won't bother us; she thinks I'm wrangling you or something."

House stared, the only evidence of pain forming in beads of sweat along his upper lip. He'd even stopped shivering. "Seriously?"

"Oh-ho. Eager, all of a sudden?"

"Dude. You just consented to semi-public sex. At work." His brows danced up toward his hairline. "Could you imagine if somebody caught us?"

"Somebody _did_ catch us, more or less. Or did you forget that fling in my office chair?"

House snorted. "Right. Forget that? That was great. What I should have said was, 'You just consented to break your arbitrary no-sex-at-work policy _again_.'"

Wilson rolled his eyes, indulgent. "Go ahead. Say it."

"You wanton slut." House laughed, though it sounded a bit strained, and then he turned dead sober again. "No, seriously."

Wilson flexed his shoulders, then shrugged out of his lab coat. Why not? He'd had office quickies before, and the clinic would be closed in another fifteen minutes or so. Besides, this was therapy. Endorphins would help in place of opiates.

"You're rationalizing this, aren't you." House gave him a knowing look.

"If rationalizations get you laid, are you really going to complain?" Wilson asked.

"What if we get caught?"

House's demeanor so surprised Wilson that he froze with his shirt buttons only halfway undone. "You're worried about getting caught? You? Gregory House, the man who offers on an almost daily basis to commit lewd acts with a dozen random strangers?" He loosened his tie and pulled it from his collar before returning his attention to his buttons.

"What interests me is the fact that you, apparently, are _not_ worried about somebody walking in on you performing illicit acts with a fellow male department head."

Wilson rolled his eyes to the side and blew out an irritated breath before he looked at House. "I thought we already had this discussion." He raised his voice to make a point, unable to hide his exasperation. "I'm not ashamed of you."

House propped himself up on his elbows and gave Wilson a quick once over.

"What?" Wilson demanded. He looked down at himself but nothing appeared amiss. "What is that supposed to accomplish, House?"

"Nothing." House moved his shoulders in what was probably meant as a shrug. "I'm just curious. A week ago you were all in a tizzy because somebody referred to you as gay, and the week before that, you practically begged me not to let anybody know we were together because people might 'react' to it."

Wilson groaned and flopped down on the stool that House had previously occupied. "Can't we just _not_ have these conversations every time you're feeling insecure?"

"I'm not insecure," House snapped. He struggled to sit up so that he could glare properly.

Wilson flipped a hand in House's direction, too drained to offer much of an argument. "Then what, House? I'm tired; I haven't slept in thirty-six hours. I can't decipher your unspoken, secret implications right now. Just tell me what your problem is."

House flared his nostrils and looked away.

"Right." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck for a second and then sprang to his feet.

House shot him a disappointed look, as if he'd expected nothing less than for Wilson to get angry and storm out, but Wilson didn't storm out. He crossed the two steps to the exam table, grabbed House by the back of his head and crushed their lips together. House uttered a surprised sound into Wilson mouth, then kissed back, hungry and fervent. Stubble raked across smooth skin and a good portion of the saliva that Wilson swallowed didn't belong to him.

A minute later, Wilson pulled back, both their lips swollen, and held House's face away from his own. "Does that allay whatever concerns you have?"

One of House's eyebrows twitched and he nodded, breathless.

"Good." Wilson dove back in, insinuating himself between House's thighs, and made damn sure to distract him by cupping his groin while he hooked his elbow under House's right knee. Before House could voice the inevitable protest, Wilson shoved him back and lifted the leg, then clambered up onto the exam table with him.

He kept House's bad leg supported under his arm, but he felt House tense as he broke off and grasped Wilson's shoulder. "Wilson – "

"Trust me." Wilson braced his right arm beside House's head and adjusted his grip on the leg, urging him without words to relinquish its weight to him. He basically cradled the damaged limb, his left palm pressed in the crease of House's thigh, his arm wrapped under and around House's bad leg. He knew that he watched House's face with too much intensity, inviting rejection, but he didn't back off.

House's only sign of acquiescence was to break eye contact, and he made an effort to relax as Wilson shuffled forward on his knees, crinkling sanitary paper and scrunching it up in an annoying wrinkle between them. He moved carefully to hold House's leg as still as possible, because any attempt House made to instinctively compensate for the motion would hurt. House made more room for him by dangling his good leg off the side of the table. Once Wilson had situated himself, he folded forward and recaptured House's mouth, breathing in the hiss as he jostled House's leg on accident.

Wilson mumbled, "Sorry," in between nips. House merely dug his fingers in at the small of Wilson's back, his response stuck in a hitch at the back of his throat. Wilson didn't really have enough leverage or free hands to do anything aside from support himself and House's leg, so he was glad when House went ahead and tugged his dress shirt from his slacks before working both their belts open. Half of Wilson's buttons were already undone and House made short work of the rest. He didn't remove the shirt, though; something Wilson did made him gasp and his fingers scrabbled at Wilson's waist to pull him down.

The soft impact of their groins, cushioned by khaki and denim, came as a surprise, at least for Wilson. He could already feel his pants growing taut over his burgeoning erection, but there was no answering firmness from the body below him. He tried to resituate himself enough to lift back off, but House cinched an arm around his waist to hold him in place.

"Don't," House rasped. He punctuated his injunction with soft swirls of his tongue all along the column of Wilson's neck. "'s'okay. Just keep going."

Wilson didn't bother arguing; House had the advantage of upper body strength even on the bottom. He craned his neck to nibble at House's bottom lip, his eyes at half mast, and experimented with a few gentle thrusts, hoping to tease House into the game. It was a no-go, and he eventually left off. "House, it's okay." Wilson planted his hands again and started to maneuver off, but House's arms tightened around him. "We can do this another time."

"No." House insisted on keeping him where he was, and there was little that Wilson could do about it without hurting him.

"I'll give you a rain check on the semi-exhibitionist rendezvous. Come on." Wilson arched away from him but their stomachs remained in contact thanks to House's arm. He would have offered more protests, but House threaded a hand through his hair and dragged him down, smothering Wilson's words against his lips. House's grip edged on painful but Wilson allowed it, wondering what the hell House wanted to prove. When they broke apart, albeit with House refusing to let Wilson retreat more than a few inches, Wilson added, "It's not a big deal. I shouldn't have offered."

House tried to wrench his face back in but Wilson stayed firm this time, grimacing as he felt a few follicles threaten to rip free. "Wilson, just… So what?" House bucked to entice him further, but Wilson's own arousal was already fading. "If you want to, then just do it. I'm sure you've had women fake it for you before. What the hell does it matter?"

"House…no. No. I'm not just gonna use you to get off. Let go." Wilson tried to squirm backwards and slip out from under House's arm.

"It's okay if you do," House insisted, and he emphatically refused to unhand him. "I don't mind."

Wilson balked. "You're in pain! I only wanted to do this because I thought it might make you feel better."

House started to shake his head, then stopped and peered up at him, expressionless. His eyes crawled to one side as he untangled his fingers, allowing Wilson to draw his head back.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Wilson didn't mean for that to come out so sharp or confrontational; it just did.

House gave an uncomfortable shrug without looking at him, his eyes trained on a ceiling tile over Wilson's shoulder.

More out of exasperation than anything else, Wilson exclaimed, "What? You think if you don't 'put out' I'm gonna go find somebody more willing?" Wilson's face fell the second he registered House's flinch. "Oh my god." He sagged back on his knees, House's bad leg still cradled under his arm. "You did. House, I can't believe you!"

"Is it just me, or do you say that a lot?"

"Don't brush this off!" Wilson shimmied to the side, ripping the crinkly paper in the process, and settled onto the floor with an angry click of his polished French shoes. He refrained from throwing House's leg back at him, though he really wanted to throw something. Instead, he waited for House to get his own hands braced under his bad thigh, then let go of him in disgust. He paced to the other end of the exam room and then turned back with one arm raised, his finger jabbing the air between them. "You are un-fucking-believable. You know that?"

House started, his eyes darting about in consternation while he sat up and rubbed his thigh, his legs hanging off the exam table almost to the floor. He didn't even attempt an answer, and that only served to infuriate Wilson further.

"Say something!" Wilson demanded. "Call me an idiot, defend yourself, anything!"

House's mouth formed around a confused syllable before he clamped his mouth shut, staring at Wilson in wide-eyed astonishment.

All the air in Wilson's lungs whooshed out in a single exhalation as he watched House just sit there, trying to puzzle out a logical reason for his anger. But there was no logical reason, just an emotional one. Defeated, Wilson slogged to the stool and plopped down, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "You don't get it. You're a fucking genius, but you don't get it."

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't apologize," Wilson mumbled.

"Okay."

Wilson lifted his head far enough to peer up at House from under his bangs. House still appeared confused, and it drew a sigh straight up from Wilson's core. "God, House. How can you be so…" He sucked in breath in the hopes that the extra second would afford him time enough to dredge up a proper adjective. Nothing came to mind, though, and Wilson ended up waving his entire sentence away with a weary swipe of his hand. Then he straightened abruptly and finished with, "…selfless?"

House furrowed his brow and ducked his head, mouthing the word back at him like he'd gone crazy. "I think you're confused, Wilson."

"Don't patronize me. You know damn well I'm not."

House scratched absently at his stubble while he mulled that one over. Obviously, it didn't compute. He adopted his sarcastic persona, the one that fooled most people into thinking he was making fun of them when in reality, he was bad-mouthing himself. "You just called me selfless."

"Yeah, House." Wilson pushed himself to his feet and put his clothes back to rights before passing House his cane. "I did."

Without waiting for the inevitable retort, Wilson flipped the latch on the door and walked out. He couldn't stomach whatever theory House would come up with to try to prove his assertion wrong.

* * *


	16. Chapter 16

A couple of hours passed before Wilson's guilt finally got the better of him. That, and he had left his lab coat in the exam room along with his prescription pad, which he kept in the coat's breast pocket. His intractable suspicions on account of that only made him feel worse; he didn't seriously think that House would steal it again, but the possibility nagged at him until he flung himself out of his office just after seven pm on a quest to prove to himself that House wasn't that much of a bastard. He hated himself for needing that reassurance; House had only stolen it the first time because Wilson refused to acknowledge the possibility that the ketamine was wearing off. What else could House have done? Wilson had been his prescribing physician; if he had asked anyone else for a script, they probably would have just sent him to Wilson. Besides that, House wouldn't have asked anyone else, not after being dismissed in every way by his supposed best friend.

Wilson found him in the MRI room, surrounded by three walls of light boxes covered in films of, presumably, his nine-year-old patient's head. House glanced over his shoulder when the door opened, then slumped back into his thinking-pose on the wheeled stool, his right leg perched on the bar, elbow propped on his left thigh, cane twirling in the air beside him. House swiveled back and forth so slowly that it seemed like a natural ebb and flow of his being, a soothing rhythm to help him formulate a diagnosis.

Wilson glanced at the films spread on the lighted table to House's right and fingered the edge of one. "These are crap."

"I know." House threw him another furtive look and hooked his thumb at the pile on the table. Wilson's lab coat was folded neatly on top of House's backpack and the heap of wool that comprised House's own jacket. "You left that."

"Thanks." Wilson picked it up with a sigh, noticed House watching him, and studiously refrained from checking the pockets. Instead, he merely put it back on and shook his shoulders to settle the fabric. "So."

House returned to his silent contemplation of the fuzzy films, his cane swishing through the air as he resumed twirling it. Then he stopped abruptly and swiveled to face Wilson full on. "What do you want now?"

Wilson probably deserved the confrontational tone. "I'm sorry I walked out like that. You…I was just…"

"Disappointed," House finished. At Wilson's look, he scoffed. "Like it wasn't obvious. I could practically smell it."

"Okay." Wilson held his hands up in a defensive gesture. "I'm not here to start a fight. Just let me explain for once."

House made a noncommittal sound and turned his back again, picking at the head of his cane while he stared through the lighted walls. "Have at it. I can't wait to hear you enumerate all the problems you have with me. Again."

"This isn't about you," Wilson replied, though in a way, it was.

That got House's attention, though; he peered over his shoulder with shrouded interest. "Hm. Last time you said something in that tone of voice, you ended the conversation by trying to avoid me for two months."

Without thinking, Wilson demanded, "Do you ever let anything go?"

House immediately shut down and pretended to ignore him.

Wilson rolled his eyes in exasperation at himself, then snapped, "I'm not disappointed with you. I'm pissed off at whatever the hell makes you think I'm gonna go find my jollies elsewhere."

"That would be your track record," House replied, still facing away.

House's tone should have given Wilson fair warning that he was in a foul temper, but it didn't. "I'm ignoring that. I don't know how else to convince you that you're being ridiculous."

Wilson started to go on, but House whirled around and nearly shouted, "Stop dismissing me!" He flung a gesture at Wilson's person and added, "And don't think I didn't notice you eyeing your damn prescription pad. Go ahead and check. I didn't steal any."

"I'm not dismissing you." Wilson's voice was only audible because nothing else moved in the MRI room.

"Then why won't you ever let me be nice?" House demanded. "Why can't _that_ make me feel better? You keep saying you want this honest shit between us, but every time I do something honest, you twist it into House conniving and manipulating you, or House suspecting you of doing crap behind his back, or…" He ran out of impetus and merely huffed the rest of his breath out through his nose, an expectant grimace on his face to encourage Wilson to dare contradict his analysis.

"Okay, first off: I didn't say I wanted you to stop being nice. I – "

"Then what the hell was that crap in the clinic?" House spun away again, but Wilson could see his jaw muscles clench, and his angry exhale assaulted the room like a blow. "You know what? Never mind. I don't need you to explain it to me. This is all because you think you have to pull some Doctor Phil crap because you suddenly think you found the secret decoder ring to my insanity. You don't know a damn thing about me. Just get lost."

"House – "

"I don't need this from you, Wilson. I'm sick of your fucking assumptions about how _I _feel and what _I _need. I can take care of myself - I don't need you around to coddle me and save me from myself."

Wilson nodded even though House wasn't looking at him. "I didn't mean to belittle you."

"Oh, for…" House bent his head to knock it against the grip on his cane.

Encouraged by the lack of yelling, Wilson went on. "I was just trying to help. I didn't think _that_ would do anything for you."

House mumbled what sounded like an obscenity. "So, because I'm such a self-absorbed misanthrope, I can't get anything out of altruism. Unlike you," House sniped. "You wallow in good deeds. It's like a niceness fetish. And you're so preoccupied with getting your own fix, you never stop to think that you're actually being a cruel fuck. And yet I'm the selfish bastard."

Wilson's only protest was a weak, "No."

An incoherent, mirthless word or two slipped from House's mouth, and then he asked, "No to which part?"

Wilson considered a blank spot in his brain in response to that, then gestured between them. "We need to figure out a way to communicate better."

"By which you mean I need to take sensitivity classes or something."

"No, by which I mean _we_ need to communicate better," Wilson returned. "We can't always be at each other's throats like this, and it's both our faults."

House seemed to debate making an argument out of that as well, but he eventually just took a deep breath and muttered, "Fine."

Wilson wondered how _fine_ construed a proper response, considering that Wilson hadn't asked him to agree to anything aside from the point he was trying to make. But he let it go for now. He sighed, "Is your leg any better?"

"It's fine. Naloxone finally wore off." As if to demonstrate this, House reached into his blazer pocket and extracted his trusty pill bottle. He paused in the act of popping the cap off, though, watching his own hand hover in front of him from the corner of his eye. Then he deliberately returned the pills to their pocket.

Wilson merely observed this display, wondering if House put on the show for him, or if he had just made a genuine effort to curb his emotional need for a distracting high. When House gave no indication that he expected Wilson to have taken notice, Wilson offered, "That's good. So you're good now?"

House glared at him over his shoulder. "What's with you? Nervous Nelly?" Then his entire demeanor changed and he brushed the previous conversation aside. "Think that could be a tumor?" He stood up and limp-hopped past Wilson to point at a spot on the film behind him. "There, at the top of the spinal column."

Wilson turned to examine it, but the image was too fuzzy. "I don't think so. It looks like gray matter. The kid probably moved and shifted the image. Did you get any clear slices?"

"Nope." House popped his lips on the end of the word and hobbled to one side, scrutinizing the poor films as he went. "Apparently, the kid shivered through the whole scan."

"Well, the procedure rooms can get chilly." Wilson stuffed his hands in his lab coat pockets and wandered along in House's wake.

"Not _that_ chilly," House countered. "And the stupid parents won't authorize a do-over. I even got Cuddy to write this one off." He fiddled his fingers at the room's contents. "They're useless. I should fire them for bringing me this crap in the first place."

It took a second for Wilson to realize that they'd skipped ahead to talking about House's fellows. "Why did they?"

"Exactly!" House pivoted on his good leg and jabbed a finger at one of the films. "Look at that. I can't tell his amygdala from his substantia nigra."

Wilson smiled in spite of himself. "I know you're worried about the kid - "

"I am _not_ worried," House interjected. "It's just that my reputation is at stake."

Wilson ignored him; they both knew it was a load of crap. "Maybe you've been at this too long. Again. You should get out of here, clear your head."

"My head _is_ clear. This kid's head, on the other hand..." House sighed and sucked on his lips. "I know it's in his brain. He has trouble swallowing, debilitating pains brought on by valsalva movements, cataplexy... Actually no, they fucked that one up. It's syncopy. The kid doesn't remember it when he flops down like a rag doll."

"House - "

"Muscle weakness, irregular heart rhythm, apnea..."

Wilson shook his head and left House to stew at the lighted wall. There was no way to force his brain off the problem, and when House got like this, all attempts to distract him tended to fail. He needed to brain himself on the metaphorical brick wall before he would consent to leave for the night, _if_ he left for the night.

A number of books and papers littered the light table, strewn over films that had been shuffled into disarray. Wilson squinted at one of the books and then picked it up. "'Guide to Diagnostic Medicine'?" Wilson turned. "You wrote a book?"

House glanced over his shoulder; his confusion dissolved when he saw what Wilson was holding up. "Oh. Yeah." The films took up his attention again, as if he'd done nothing more spectacular than scrawl out a post-it grocery list. "Some college department chair asked me to do it."

Wilson flipped open the cover and his eyebrows whisked up. "Harper Collins?" He made an appreciative sound as he paged through and skimmed some of the anecdotes. "It's pithy."

"That's just the advance copy; it's not out yet. They wanted something pedestrian, like a mass market thing instead of a textbook. The publishing guy claims he pre-sold a bunch of them already." House shrugged that off, an uneasy gesture.

Wilson laughed softly. "That's great."

House turned to give him a reproving look. "It's just a book."

Luckily, House was facing the MRI films again by the time Wilson's disbelief seeped out to infiltrate his expression. "House, it's a _book_. You wrote a book for – for – " Wilson hurried to part crisp, newly printed pages with his fumbly fingers. His eyes saucered. "For Harvard School of Med? Their chairman asked you to write a book, and all you can say is, 'It's just a book'? House, that's incredible! It'll be a best seller."

House peered back at him with half a smirk, like Wilson had grown a tail.

"I'm serious! This is a big deal!" Wilson shut the book and paraded it around in front of him as he approached House. "We should celebrate. Drinks, friends – "

"No." House backed away a step and directed a nervous gaze at his patient's films. "People don't have to know."

Wilson gaped, then backed up to better showcase his shock. "House, you got commissioned to write a book for one of the most prestigious medical schools in the country. Do you honestly think no one's going to find out? You're world famous as it is."

"For Christ's sake." House lunged forward to nab the book from Wilson's hand. "Drop it already."

Wilson watched him study the tome, and then threw his hands up. "You're thinking of backing out of the deal now, aren't you."

House scowled at him. "Have you seen how many emails I already get from idiots who want opinions or consults or collaborations or – or t-shirts?"

"Okay, I get it." Wilson held his palms up. "Publicity is a bad thing."

"Damn right." House tossed the book back into the mess on the table and returned to his perusal of the walls. "Next thing I know, a bunch of sub-educated morons will start following me around for autographs. I'd be flattered, really, but groupies cramp my style."

Wilson grinned at him, and House started the second he noticed. "You wrote a book."

"Oh, shove off," House muttered, but he was smiling too.

Wilson came up behind him and examined a few films over his shoulder. "You're never going to find anything in these. Let's get out of here, relax…sleep. I know you haven't slept in the past two days either."

"Four for me," House corrected. He craned his neck to give Wilson his know-it-all look. "Unconsciousness doesn't count."

"Four days." Wilson rolled his eyes, humoring him. He had no doubt that House was sleep deprived, but he also knew House's work habits. There were certainly a handful of fifteen minute naps scattered between tests and bouts of mockery. "How are you still standing?"

"Shall I explain the physics of the human body to you? There's this thing called equilibrium – "

"We can go back to my place; it's closer. I'll order a pizza."

"Pizza two nights in a row?" House stepped far enough away to poke Wilson's belly with the tip of his cane. "Thought you were a health nut."

"I plan to work off the calories with you later. And you like my love handles," Wilson pointed out deadpan. "What else would you grab onto?"

House blinked, then smirked. "Nice. Weren't we just fighting about whether or not to have sex?"

"I'm chalking that up to a miscommunication." Wilson put on his bland face. "Unless you'd prefer to continue the argument. But I warn you, it might interfere with the aforementioned sex." He let his eyes stray toward the ceiling. "In fact, now that I know you _like_ being nice to me once in a while, I'm gonna draw up a list of things I'd like for you to do to me. You know…when you're in a 'nice' mood."

House screwed up his face in an effort not to laugh.

"That's a good look for you. So, are we done here?"

House pondered the glowing walls around him for a few more seconds, then let out a frustrated breath. "Yeah, I'm done. Not like these will do anyone any good."

They spent several minutes taking the films down and stowing them in their proper folders. Actually, Wilson did most of the organizing and stowing; House spent the time figuring out how fast he needed to spin the stool before centripetal force alone kept his feet from touching the floor. Wilson had to catch him when he misjudged his footing the second he stood up, and then he laughed while House gripped the rim of a trash can and tried to keep his afternoon coffee where it belonged.

On the way out, they detoured to Wilson's office so that he could lock up for the night. Aside from deciding which pizzeria to call ahead for, they didn't really talk on the drive back to Wilson's apartment. House seemed preoccupied with his fudged MRI, and Wilson was preoccupied with House. The guy kept doing things that left Wilson wondering if he'd ever really known him at all, and it was a bit unsettling to think that after fifteen years, he still hadn't even scratched House's surface.

With impeccable timing, they ran into the pizza guy just as they parked, and Wilson hung back to pay while House labored up the steps to the front door. Wilson lingered behind on purpose out of some misguided sense of propriety; he thought it rude to pass up a cripple, as if that drew attention to House's disability. He wondered if House even cared, but considering how touchy he could be on the subject of his leg, and how emphatically he insisted that he didn't need anyone's help, Wilson figured that it probably did sit ill with him, at least on some level.

Once they made it inside Wilson's apartment, House made a beeline for the couch and flopped back with a long-suffering sigh. This time, when he fished out his pills, he didn't stop himself from taking one. Wilson carried the pizza into the kitchen and dropped several slices on a plate, which he carried into the living room. He only kept one piece for himself. On a second thought, he backed up a step and snagged two bottles of water from the refrigerator, dangling them by the caps from between his knuckles. House looked over in time to see him shut the refrigerator door with his hip, and smirked.

Wilson let a smug smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Here."

House reached over his head to accept the plate that Wilson held out to him. "You dirtied a perfectly clean piece of dinner ware for pizza? I don't need a plate."

"You do if you're eating in my apartment." Wilson rounded the couch to sit next to him, tossing the water bottle in his lap. "Find something good to watch."

House picked up a slice, bit off a huge chunk, then addressed Wilson with his mouth full. "Why don't you have to use a plate?"

"Because it's my apartment." Wilson straightened a bit and groped between the cushions for the remote. Once he found it, he lobbed it in House's direction. It was easier to just hand over control of the television right from the get-go.

"I don't suppose you Tivo anything halfway decent." House queued up Wilson's saved recordings even as he delivered this remark. His face scrunched and he flung his gaze at Wilson. "The Tudors?"

Without looking at him, Wilson replied, "I like the costumes."

"Right." House's gaze rolled back to the TV menu. "We'll get you some Henry the Eighth poofy pants and a pair of purple tights."

"And buckle shoes," Wilson added, deadpan. "I know you have a shoe fetish. Wouldn't want you to feel left out." He stuffed the last of his pizza in his mouth.

House looked at him again, chewing the end of his pizza crust without biting it off. He spoke around the soggy bread. "What, you're a pilgrim now?"

"Didn't your mother ever teach you to mind your manners?" Wilson meant it in good fun, the same as always, but House's face froze for a second. Wilson swore under his breath and cast a long-suffering glance at the ceiling. No more fighting, no more fighting…

House was still watching him, still gnawing on the pizza crust like an orphan out of Oliver Twist. He very deliberately bit off the part he had slobbered all over and made a show of chewing in silence with his mouth closed, like a good little boy. Wilson tried not to look, not to goad him into some fresh fit of pique, but his recalcitrant eyes kept straying across the couch in flickers and spurts until House theatrically swallowed and reclined back to his lounging position. "Yeah," House finally replied. "She did. Wanna know how?"

The dark overtones of his voice warned Wilson to silence and he merely glanced uneasily at House, hoping that the conversation would end there and then. Thankfully, it did. House leaned forward to set the plate on the coffee table, only one slice of pizza eaten, and then settled again without another word.

Wilson focused on the television though he had little interest left in watching it. Neither did House, apparently; he left the Tivo menu sitting there in pixilated still life, his eyes elsewhere. This shouldn't bother him; it shouldn't bother either of them. Wilson made jokes about House's mom all the time, it was just that now, he knew things that cast the formerly innocent jibes in a dark new light. But if that didn't matter before, why should House fail to laugh now?

Probably because they were sleep-deprived and riding the tail end of a weekend fraught with arguments and high emotions. Was it any wonder that all day long, every little slip of the tongue had set them both off? Wilson reflected wryly that he didn't handle stress in any more healthy a manner than House. Yes, he took pills for it, but he had no idea how to properly process the fear and the worry without turning tail to flee. He had done that often enough before to know it about himself: a certain Christmas Eve, a certain traffic accident… He repressed emotion to the best of his abilities, the same way that House did. The only difference was that House wore his heart on his sleeve, though he probably didn't know it. Wilson had a persona to hide behind.

In contrast to his sleepy mind, Wilson's body felt like an exposed live wire, buzzing with frantic energy barely held in check. Having a surly House on the couch next to him didn't help, and he launched to his feet without any real thought. Then he stood there like a dope with his fingers twiddling next to his leg before his body decided to pace of its own accord. Just to have something to do, he strode over to grab the pizza plate and headed toward the kitchen.

House twisted on the couch to watch him, then looked away and sighed. "Wilson?"

Wilson paused to look at him.

"I might have…over reacted. A little." House's admission came with a side dish of squirming and eyes darting to accost anything not Wilson.

"Yeah," Wilson croaked. "But it's okay. It's…I guess…Things are sorta rough right now."

"Are you okay?"

Wilson started. "Am _I _okay? Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno." House shrugged. "But your voice is all reedy and sort of rounded on all the wrong letters, and you're up in the alto ranges. When nothing's wrong, you're a tenor, sometimes a baritone. You only hit alto when your heart's racing or you're about to get all…ya know…weepy or something." House jutted his chin at nothing in particular, an unconscious tell for his discomfort with a subject. "So."

Wilson's eyes slid to one side, then back. "I didn't know you analyzed my verbal communications so meticulously." Of course, now that House had pointed it out, he heard the lack of definition in his speech. He also realized that his language flowered, as if to hide himself in the confusion of sorting through big words.

"I analyze everything about you meticulously." House stated this fact without any evidence that he thought it unusual. Then he repeated, "So."

"What, that's all you have to say?" Wilson eyed him uncertainly. "Just 'so'?" He made a ridiculous face as he parroted that. When House merely shrugged again, refusing eye contact, Wilson sighed. "Maybe you haven't noticed, seeing as how you're in denial of most of the real world, but it's been stressful lately. _I've_ been stressed."

"I know."

"You know." Wilson scoffed. He waited for something more, but when House offered no words back – no comfort, no snark, no explanation, not even anger – Wilson barked, "Quit your damn wallowing and insult me. I can't take this pseudo-humble shit from you. It's weird."

House finally deigned to look at him, skewed to one side on the couch so that he could almost face Wilson. It was a defensive posture, though only Wilson would have recognized it in him. If House weren't fully facing him, then it was easier to turn away again. "Hm. Pissy, aren't we."

Something in Wilson just snapped then, a guitar string pulled too tight over the course of five days, screaming the way Wilson had once taunted House about when he had stolen House's vintage flying V. "Yes, actually, 'we' are," Wilson replied with the sort of snark that House dolled out on a daily basis. "I listened to you scream for half an hour the other night, and I couldn't stop it. Do you know what that's like? To just _sit_ there and know there isn't a damn thing you can do?" Wilson sucked in a shuddering breath and tried desperately not to fall apart. "I called for help and nobody came – no one was _going_ to come. I did everything I was supposed to do, perfect little Jimmy Wilson always does the right thing, and everyone still abandoned me. And _you_ had to suffer for it."

"Chase and Foreman came," House pointed out, though he sounded unsure of himself.

"Do you think that meant anything _before_ I knew they were coming?" Wilson demanded. He took a single step closer, the plate held in one quaking hand. "I seriously thought you were gonna die, House. Again. _Again_! And you – " Wilson stopped himself from mentioning House's delusions after the seizure because if he didn't remember all of what he had said, then Wilson was better off never telling him about it. "There was _no one there_, House. Nobody to – to – " He didn't know what, so he just stuttered to an end and stared at House, waiting. He could hear the edges of his own voice unraveling even before he spoke again. "Do you have _any idea_ what that feels like?"

House did something like whet his mouth without opening it; the act was reminiscent of licking his lips. "Yeah, I know what it's like." He met Wilson's eyes and the nakedness of the expression scooped gaping hollows from Wilson's belly. "You think I didn't ask for help?" The look on his face was somehow worse for Wilson to see because it was so calm, as if House accepted such a thing as his due. Or more accurately, as if he weren't talking about himself at all. "I remember begging for somebody to come. Anybody." He finally looked away and Wilson thanked god for once that House chose to hide again, to duck behind his own shoulder. "Eventually, you learn to stop asking." He turned his head just enough to view Wilson in his periphery, a small, hunched profile on the couch.

Wilson tried to retain his composure, he really did. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

House shrugged and turned a bit farther toward him. "I felt better after I stopped expecting people to do something. You can only count on yourself, Wilson."

Something shocked or appalled must have shown in his face, a pale reaction that shook behind the stillness on the surface. He could see it reflected in the way House's features slackened, puzzled before he realized that Wilson wasn't actually mad, just terrified after the fact. Seeing that put a flicker of fear in House's eyes because he never seemed to know how to handle other people's emotions. He couldn't even handle his own.

When House labored to his feet and limped toward him, sans cane, Wilson folded in on himself, curling forward a little bit as if to shelter something against his chest. For once, House managed to do the right thing at the right time; he grabbed Wilson's arms and pulled him in, silent. The plate tumbled forgotten from Wilson's hand; he heard it hit the rug and roll, no doubt leaving a mess of splattered pizza. He didn't care. Wilson clutched House's biceps and gave in to the despair that had loomed over him ever since Cuddy said that there were no ambulances left. How embarrassing was it to let House see him like this, a trembling, emasculated thing rubbing snot all over his storm-blue button-down? It was bad enough Wilson had had a panic attack in front of him, but this… Wilson put a stop to his thoughts and merely gripped House harder than he had ever gripped Amber, though he mumbled a clog-nosed apology into House's shoulder.

House held him in an awkward embrace, his hand too light on Wilson's back, his frame tense. But he _did_ hold him, and he made a feeble attempt to smooth the hair down the back of Wilson's head, both of them leaning to House's left to spare his bad leg.

Eventually, House turned in toward Wilson's ear and said, "It's nice that you care."

Wilson laughed snot out his nose and tried to snuff to clear his airways enough to respond. "I need to wash your shirt."

House latched onto the banter like a lifeline. "Both of them, and soon. I can feel the boogers soaked halfway down my arm. They'll dry crusty."

"Well, if the shirt fits…" Wilson purposefully wiped his nose across House's collar before tugging himself free.

"Jerk." House held his arm away from his body.

Wilson bent down to gather up the plate and fallen pizza. "Louse."

"Ooo. New one." House hummed his approval of that and hopped to retrieve his cane. "I'm borrowing one of your shirts. And by borrowing, I mean taking with no intention of ever giving back."

"And that differs from your usual definition how?" Wilson carried the linty pizza slices to the trash and set the plate in the sink. It was only after that when he realized House hadn't heard his comeback. "Mm. Waste of a perfectly good retort."

After splashing some cold water on his face and drying it on a kitchen towel, Wilson returned to the couch. He combed his fingers through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to set it back to rights, then picked up the remote. House thumped back into the room a minute later and dropped his t-shirt and button-down on Wilson's head.

Wilson dumped the shirts onto the floor and flattened a palm over his freshly mussed hair. "Thanks, House." Then he turned self conscious. "And, um. Thanks."

House glanced at him long enough to gauge the placement of the remote. "Sure, whatever. Just don't make a habit of it."

"Not planning to."

"Good." House started to grab for the remote but Wilson offered it up. House warily plucked it from Wilson's fingers and returned to the Tivo listing. Wilson stilled his leg when it started to bounce, but House went ahead and drummed his fingers on the cushion next to him. After they spent a few fruitless seconds trying to reclaim their stoic, aloof manhood in the wake of an uncharacteristic fluffy moment, House said, "We need porn."

Wilson squeaked, "Definitely," and then breathed a sigh of relief. He threw House a look that even he couldn't have defined while House brought up Wilson's pay-per-view menu. When House didn't acknowledge the scrutiny, Wilson let his eyes inch downward. Then he flicked his fingers in House's direction. "How do you always manage to do that?"

House blinked at him, completely lost.

Exasperated, Wilson explained, "No matter what shirt you wear or how you sit, it frames your crotch like that. Perfect little upside down V." He pantomimed the V over his own lap, just to illustrate his point. House's brows canted into an uneven line as he verified Wilson's assertion with a quick glance at his crotch. "And your pants always bunch up _right _there." Wilson pointed at the innocent curve of House's fly. "It's like your wardrobe conspires to draw extra attention to your dick."

House smirked. "Not telling." He faced the television again. "What flavor erotica are we in the mood for?"

"Hm." A splotch caught Wilson's eye and he strained to see his shirt collar past his nose. "Damn."

House wasn't even gazing in Wilson's general direction, but he said, "See? Shoulda used a plate."

"Oh, shut up." Wilson sucked on the pizza sauce stain, which only made it worse, then sighed and just smoothed his hand over his collar instead. "Pick something different." He took a moment to pick at his teeth with the tip of his tongue for a second, fixated on a bit of pizza crust stuck there. Then he turned a thoughtful gaze on House. "We've never watched man-on-man porn, which is odd, considering."

Ten minutes later, the two of them sat far apart on the couch, staring with their heads tilted to one side.

"Do you suppose we look that ridiculous?" Wilson asked eventually.

"I don't see how." House repositioned his head to view the television from a different angle. "Maybe."

"How much did this cost?"

"Didn't look." House straightened with a bewildered expression, started to say something, then just made a face. "I don't get it. That guy's obviously faking."

"Can't be faking," Wilson countered. "He's got a hard on."

House jabbed a few fingers at the television. "Are you listening to that? He's either faking or constipated."

Wilson took a breath and scrubbed at his cheek. "I think I'm actually _less_ turned on than before it started."

"There's no way we look like that." House pointed. "For one thing, neither of us could ever bend that way."

"That just looks painful," Wilson agreed.

They watched for another minute in silence, then House exclaimed, "I vote we switch to lesbians."

"Good call." Wilson adjusted himself on the couch, not that he had anything to adjust at the moment, and waited while House scrolled through the pay-per-view listings again. Then he just blurted out, "We could always film ourselves." At House's look, he hurried to add, "Just to see if we really look like idiots when we do it."

House seemed more amused by Wilson's suggestion than anything else. "No way."

"You're not curious?"

House focused on the television and asserted, "No."

"Really." Wilson turned on the couch. "You, the king of narcissism, are not the least bit interested in watching yourself have sex?"

House laughed at that, but still insisted, "No. You really want to watch yourself bounce all over the place, make obscene squelching noises, and moan like a cheap porn star?"

Wilson didn't respond to that; he just sort of shrugged and tried to brush it off. "I don't bounce."

House dropped the remote and gaped at him. "Oh my god. You made a sex tape."

"No, I didn't."

"_You made a sex tape!_" House grinned like a fiend, then turned way too sober. "Let's watch it."

"I – it – no. I don't have it anymore." Wilson tried to sound as convincing as possible. He didn't want to explain that he'd made it with Amber, so he resorted to distraction. "We should make a replacement."

House cocked his head to one side, his lips drawn up just the tiniest bit. "No way. I have principles."

"No, you don't," Wilson replied. "Since when are you a prude?"

"Since it involves my bare ass being showcased on your laptop." House must have replayed that in his mind because he smirked.

Wilson scooted closer and dropped his hand to House's crotch. House sucked in a breath and leaned farther back, his eyelids drooping. Wilson gave him his most dark, seductive look. "I'll ride you if you say yes."

"Um." House made a point of fumbling to get his hand back on the remote, and then he jabbed the off button with more force than necessary.

Wilson started rubbing and kneading the semi-firm flesh under his hand. From the way House's pupils dilated, Wilson figured he had pretty much won. He could feel House's jeans pulling taut beneath his fingers and he flattened his palm to press up and down along his length. This was a much more encouraging response than what he had gotten in the exam room; House had to be feeling better. "I can tell you're interested."

"Kind of hard not to be." House shifted slightly against Wilson's hand and blew a sharp breath out through his nose. His voice had already thinned by the time he added, "Pun intended."

Wilson grinned, triumphant, and swung his leg over House's lap to the accompaniment of a soft rumble from the farthest reaches of House's throat. Wilson didn't settle in for fear of putting weight on House's bad thigh, but he pressed his stomach up against House's chest and craned his neck to suckle behind House's ear. "I really am sorry about this afternoon."

"You shouldn't assume things," House replied. He arched his back and shoved his groin against Wilson's palm, his hands settling at Wilson's waist. "Now stop discussing crap and put your mouth to better use. I'm not gonna listen from this point on anyway."

Wilson chuckled and pressed his mouth harder against House's neck, nudging his head a bit to the side. He let his teeth scrape the skin between his lips, and then he nibbled a jagged line down to House's shoulder, tugging his shirt collars out of the way as he did so. He kept up a steady rhythm with his hand too, cupping his fingers and digging the heel of his palm in against the base of House's erection with just the right amount of pressure. When the denim beneath his hand grew damp, Wilson bit down on House's shoulder. House grunted something ecstatic and Wilson drew back to gaze into House's lidded eyes, two black pits ringed in a blaze of blue. "Is that better?"

"Fucking tease."

Just for that, Wilson climbed off and went to find his laptop, walking funny as he made his way to his briefcase by the front door. "Coming?"

"Not yet." It was the expected response in all exchanges House-ish, and House delivered it with his usual aplomb. He twisted on the couch to watch Wilson gather his laptop and snag the webcam from his desk, his brows gathering together. "Where are you going?"

Wilson paused, his arms full of electronics. "The bedroom." He refrained from adding _duh_ to the end of that, but it certainly showed in his voice.

Without inflection, House asked, "On Amber's bed? Isn't that a little weird?"

They stared at each other for a second, and then Wilson shifted his feet. "Is _that_ why you never agree to spend the night here?"

"So, just so we're clear, that's a no to the weird thing." House twiddled his index finger in the air and made a _huh_ face as he turned back to the dark television.

Wilson watched him pick at his lap and then reach for his cane, though he didn't stand up. He didn't want to explain that the couch was out for this as well, in deference to Amber. It seemed like she showed up to loom over them every few days, a silent specter unmentioned in the midst of otherwise innocuous conversations. Wilson shook himself and padded up behind the couch. "Here." He dropped the computer and webcam in House's lap. Judging by the sharp exhalation, it landed on something sensitive. "Get those set up, will you? I think I have one of those self-inflatable air mattresses."

Over his shoulder, House called, "Why do you have an air mattress? Nobody visits you."

Wilson stuck his head back out from behind the closet door that he had just opened. "That's nice, House. Insult me some more."

House made an annoyed face. "You know what I mean. Your parents never come to Princeton, your brother stays in a hotel when…come to think of it, he doesn't come here either, not unless you're getting married. And I've never seen you hanging out with an old college buddy."

Wilson rolled his eyes and bent double to yank the air mattress out from under a plethora of other random closet junk. "I wouldn't subject old college buddies to you. You'd cane them."

"Damn straight." House could be heard shuffling around, presumably setting up the camera. "And anyway, I don't believe you have old college buddies. You strike me as the obsessive sort. You know – wake up, groom yourself for two hours, and then spend the next eighteen studying like a fiend before you crash. I bet you didn't even talk to your own roommate."

"Charming." Wilson dragged the rolled-up contraption over into the center of the living room. "And it's technically Amber's air mattress, in case that matters."

House poked his head up over the back of the couch. "Did you two ever have sex on it?"

Wilson gave him a strange look. "No. Why would we?"

"I dunno." House shrugged and went back to figuring out how the camera worked. "You strike me as the obsessive sort. You know – mark all available surfaces with your impassioned spunk – "

"Are you seriously going to keep talking about me and Amber having sex? Because you'll officially kill the mood in another fifteen seconds. Maybe less."

"All set." House held up the camera eye in triumph.

Wilson could see a shifting image of himself going in and out of focus on the laptop screen on the coffee table. He shot House a dirty look and then focused on rolling the air mattress out. It would take a few minutes for the little built-in pump to inflate it all the way. Until then, he figured that they could work on getting themselves back into the proper mood, because Wilson's excitement, at least, had been dampened by talk of his dead girlfriend.

Wilson rounded the couch just as House started to say something else, a smart ass remark by the tone. Without a word of warning, Wilson tackled him into the back of the couch, straddling him again, and propelled his tongue halfway down House's throat. A choked exclamation got stuck behind House's nose and he kissed back as soon as he recovered from the surprise attack. Wilson pulled back just far enough to mutter, "You talk too much," and then he dove back in to suffocate him.

House made some small, happy noise in agreement and reached to pull Wilson in by his ass cheeks. Apparently, almost five days without sex was just too much for them because the next thing Wilson knew, House's hands were up the front of his shirt, his fingers pinched around nipples. Wilson squirmed into the sharp pain and huffed a needy breath against House's tongue, which had slithered past Wilson's to run along the backs of his teeth. Wilson's groin hovered a few inches above House's lap, but he could feel the expectant heat suspended between them.

Wilson wasn't cognizant of his intent until he realized that he was pretty much trying to crawl into House, his knees cinched on either side of House's hips and pressed all the way to the back of the couch, his clothed erection digging into House's stomach. He grabbed the back of the couch with one hand and got a firm hold on House's hair with the other. At the same time, House ripped Wilson's belt open and shoved a hand into the back of his pants, the tips of his long fingers pressing down between his buttocks to put sweet pressure over Wilson's entrance. Wilson stuck his ass farther out, encouraging House to probe deeper, but House pulled his hand away. Before Wilson had a chance to whine in protest, House turned his head to quickly slick his fingers with saliva, and then mouth and hand returned to where Wilson wanted them most.

Due to the awkward angle, House could only manage to crook the first knuckle of his middle finger inside, but Wilson stifled a moan at the sensation and buried his head in House's neck, his lips working brutally at whatever skin he could taste. House gently rubbed the pad of his finger along the inside rim of Wilson's anus, not nearly deep enough to spark fires but sufficient to set the slow burn building in Wilson's loins, a soft haze that spread to encompass the rest of his body at the mere thought of what House would do to him later. Wilson wasn't expecting it when House grabbed at Wilson's crotch with his other hand, and several sharp cries escaped Wilson in rapid succession, which he stifled in House's shoulder. His hips jotted forward of their own accord and he rutted against House's palm.

Sooner than expected, Wilson heard the air mattress pump snick off and he angled himself away. He gentled his ministrations to House's throat, ending with a soft nip to House's jaw before he leaned back to inhale a long breath. House blinked at him, his lips swollen and moist, pupils blown. Wilson could feel him trembling, a subtle shiver beneath Wilson's hands on his shoulders. Absence did indeed make the heart grow fonder. Or hornier. Whichever worked.

House's eyes narrowed. "You're thinking gooey shit."

"If I am, it's your fault," Wilson quipped, then climbed off the couch. "Be right back." He trailed his hand lightly down House's chest, ending with a quick squeeze between his legs, then left the room to retrieve sheets and lube.

When he returned, House gave him a funny look. "You don't have to make it look like a bed, Wilson."

Wilson was treating House to his stern glare before he knew it.

"Okay, maybe you do," House said with a shrug and a bob of his eyebrows.

"Humor me." It didn't take long to throw sheets and a blanket down on the air mattress, and then Wilson dragged the coffee table closer to adjust the camera, aware of House rustling around on the couch behind him.

"Is that thing recording yet?"

Wilson tapped the touch pad on the laptop and replied, "Yup." Then the air rushed from his lungs as he toppled onto the air mattress with a loud whump. He rolled just in time to avoid House landing on top of him and they wrestled for a moment, Wilson laughing and House intent as they each struggled to gain the upper hand. House yanked Wilson's shirt over his head and then flung it aside, leaving Wilson's hair puffed out in a static halo. This prompted Wilson to seize House by the belt and wrench his pants off. In no time flat, they were both naked, and Wilson shoved House down on his back, covering him before he had a chance to find any leverage.

Wilson hefted House's good leg up onto his shoulder and leaned forward, his palms planted on the mattress near House's armpits, and ducked down to claim whatever skin he could reach with his mouth. Insistent fingers played about the nape of Wilson's neck, and House latched his other hand onto Wilson's thigh, urging him forward. Wilson moved his knee up, but House kept tugging on various parts of him, warm palms sticking on hot skin, until Wilson had to relinquish House's leg. He ended up sitting on House's chest, and then he pitched forward as House craned his neck to swallow Wilson's erection whole.

"Shit! Oh, fuck…" Wilson's words dribbled off much more quickly than they usually did and he scooted up until his knees met resistance in House's armpits. Wilson planted his hands on the pseudo pillow of the air mattress and rounded his back, aware that one of House's hands gripped his hip hard enough to leave marks. House's other hand teased his balls from behind and Wilson rocked forward without thinking, plunging his aching cock down, raking his tip along the ridges on the roof of House's mouth until he could go no further. He felt House swallowing around him and gasped out an incoherent cry of pleasure. There were advantages to House's Vicodin habit, one of them being his lack of gag reflex.

Abruptly, the warmth disappeared and Wilson felt House's body arch beneath him just as he realized that House was throwing him off. The air mattress made a sound like what one might hear in a bathroom as Wilson fell over to one side, and then House grabbed Wilson's forearms and pinned him down. "See? I _like_ being 'selfless' once in a while." He nosed at Wilson's temple and added, "I like knowing I can put that look on your face. It makes me feel…" His eyes danced away to contemplate some other corner of the room, a merry little mischievous grin on his face. "…better."

Wilson clutched at House's arms, but only because House had him pinned so that he couldn't reach anything else. "Fine. I stand corrected. I'm an ass." His voice came out pitchy, and from House's expression, he liked the way he could make Wilson sound too.

Apparently, that was all House wanted – an acknowledgement. He let up on Wilson's arms and shuffled back to sit comfortably on his left hip. Wilson crawled over to reposition the laptop and webcam, watching House sit behind him via the monitor. He froze with one hand on the little camera ball, his eyes fixed on the image of House while House thought he wasn't paying attention. Too bright eyes roamed at leisure over Wilson's backside, flashes of blue that the camera picked up in flickers of light. House's gaze strayed up the curve of Wilson's back to a shoulder, then down again. Wilson pretended that he was still making adjustments, though his gaze remained fixed on House. The expression on his face could only be described as rapt.

Wilson tilted his head when House did, unconsciously imitating him, and then House hooked his hands in the creases of Wilson's thighs. He yanked Wilson back hard and the unexpected move caused Wilson to drop face first onto the air mattress, one arm trailing off the coffee table and the other trapped beneath his sternum. House brought Wilson's ass flush to his chest, and before Wilson could react, he had both hand wrapped around Wilson's cock, his forearms supporting Wilson's hips. It was an awkward position for Wilson, his legs extended on either side of House, his knees only barely touching the air mattress and his toes searching for some sort of purchase behind House. Wilson tugged his trapped arm free and pulled his arms in toward his body, fully intending to prop himself up again so that he could pull loose and finish positioning the camera at the perfect angle.

A press of moist lips thwarted him, caressing Wilson's buttocks, moving over bare, sweaty skin until they reached the cleft between his cheeks. Wilson tensed, raising his ass instinctively, and then House's tongue dipped down. The fists encircling his cock tightened, then went slack, and then squeezed again, pumping him without friction, a maddening tactic. Wilson fought to keep his eyes open as his lids fluttered, entranced by the picture on the laptop screen, which he could just see past the rim of the coffee table. He parted his legs a fraction more, feet sliding over cheap cotton, and House nuzzled Wilson's backside. Stubble abraded Wilson's sensitive skin and House's tongue ringed Wilson's anus a few times, teasing him before he nudged it in.

Wilson sucked in a breath and held it as he felt House's tongue wriggle inside of him, tantalizing his nerve endings in sharp bursts. Wilson dipped his back, angling his hips to give House easier access, his legs trembling under the strain of trying to keep his weight off House's arms. He needn't have bothered; House hoisted him up farther, splaying his arms to force Wilson's legs wider, his knees completely off the mattress, and Wilson's brain whited out when House thumbed his slit.

"Hhoh…_mmm!_" Wilson's stomach curled as House hit on some as yet underutilized bundle of sensory nerves. The callused palms wrapped firmly around his cock picked up the pace, kneading faster at the engorged flesh, fingernails tickling Wilson's balls. Wilson's hips twitched, toes digging into the blankets. When House mashed his face against Wilson's crack to shove his tongue deeper, Wilson gave another abortive thrust. In his current position, he pretty much just curled his head and shoulders harder into the air mattress, losing sight of the laptop screen.

And then House started stroking him with both hands, long pulls from Wilson's base to his tip, one after the other with no pause between, and Wilson lost it. He clawed at the edge of the air mattress and grit his teeth, his back rounding even in this unnatural position, legs widening their stance though he could gain no footholds against the sheets. House continued paying attention to Wilson's backside, too, and the combination ripped a series of sharp moans from Wilson's throat, which he stifled in the air mattress. He felt his breathing tumble off into something erratic, every muscle in his body quivering under the force with which he held himself in place. He wanted nothing better than to writhe at House's treatment of him, but he knew that if he moved too much, he might accidentally yank himself away from the crucial hands and mouth.

House moved one hand to grip Wilson's base, to stave off orgasm, his stray fingers somehow curled around Wilson's testicles to prevent them from drawing up. "Ah – _fuck_!" Wilson couldn't stop himself from bucking at that, mainly because House continued pumping his cock with his other hand, up and down, firm pressure along the underside and a swirl of House's wrist at the tip.

Wilson scrabbled at the blankets as if to anchor himself, his legs cinching about House's body. He stuffed his face into the crook of his arm, unable to hold back his vocalizations. "Hmm…._mmph_!" Wilson bucked again and then fought to hold still. He sucked in a stuffy breath, sheets pasted to his nostrils, and then unleashed a lurid string of half-phrases into the mattress. Both of House's hands tightened about him, and he did something downright impossible with his tongue.

Wilson gasped, eyes wide, and arched, shoving his ass up against House's face and throwing his head back. "_Nnngh_! House, mumph…oh god, _more__!_" The fingers squeezing his base kept him from coming, but it couldn't lessen the pleasure that washed through every cell in his body, a wave of heat that seared his skin and paradoxically left goose pimples all over him. Wilson's eyes rolled up and he let out a much more convincing moan than anything on the two-bit pay-per-view show.

Just when Wilson realized that he couldn't hold back any longer, House released his genitals and drew back, taking time to lay a chaste kiss near Wilson's tailbone. Wilson panted into the sheets in relief, sweat broken out in beads all over his body and rolling off the smooth planes of his back. House lowered Wilson's trapped body just enough to settle his knees back onto the mattress, and then Wilson felt him petting his lower back, running his palm in soothing circles over Wilson's spine to help calm him, bring him back from the brink.

Wilson exhaled loudly, something close to a blissful, exhausted groan, and lifted his head. He didn't have enough energy or presence of mind at the moment to try to look over his shoulder, but he could still see the laptop and the image that it was recording. He blinked beads of perspiration from his eyes, then bent his head to wipe his face across the blankets so that he could focus on the display. They really did look ridiculous, House hugging Wilson's ass and Wilson still twitching as he came down from a razor's edge.

That was when Wilson saw it. House's eyes were trained on Wilson but he seemed to look through him, to a secret portion of his being that Wilson couldn't see. Whatever House found, it made him smile this tiny, secretive little smile that Wilson had never seen on him before. It was an expression forged of stolen lunches and suggestive bickering, of furtive looks and carefully hoarded, treasured bits of ordinary days…of events that only House noticed and bothered to ever recall. Bits of Wilson that he stored away in a safe, shuttered place, just in case the real Wilson ever moved beyond his grasp.

Too low for House to hear, Wilson mumbled, "Oh my god." His eyes remained riveted to the screen, mesmerized. That was love. That, right there, captured on a webcam in the middle of a pornographic setup…that was love on House's face.

Wilson twisted to look over his shoulder, to see if he could catch House in the act, but when their eyes met, it was gone, as if Wilson had imagined it. He very well might have, at that. House smirked, his fingers once again playing over Wilson's skin, tripping across nerve endings to entice him to get on with the naughtiness. The smugness looked good on him, but Wilson wanted that other expression, the buried one. It hurt to know that if House really did feel that, he evidently didn't trust Wilson enough to let it show until Wilson's back was turned.

House's smirk faded; he knew that something had just happened, but he had no idea what. Wilson preempted any inquiries by pulling away and pivoting on his knees. He grabbed House by the ears and attacked his mouth, then his throat, pushing him back in the process so that he could next run his lips along House's clavicle, then down to suckle and rake his teeth over a nipple. House grunted approval and hissed as Wilson clamped down on a nub, his fingers carding Wilson's hair on their way to knead at his neck and shoulders. Wilson smothered his newfound realization in the fragrance of House's body and ran a harsh hand down to pinch the sensitive skin between House's thigh and balls.

"Ungh!" House arched into Wilson's hand and mouth but Wilson pressed him back down. House's abdomen rippled under the hand that Wilson used to restrain him, and further down on the air mattress, House planted his left foot flat so that he could cant his hips up, not that Wilson's arm allowed for that sort of movement right now.

Wilson slid down House's body to confront House's erect cock laying straight up against his abdomen near Wilson's hand. Wilson laved the skin all around it, hot breath blowing out his nose in the wake of his tongue until House shivered uncontrollably. Then Wilson pressed his lips over the sweet spot under the head and sucked hard enough to leave a mark. After a few seconds, Wilson ran his lips down to do the same to the base of House's cock, nipping and sucking at the sensitive patch of skin just above his balls. House didn't seem to care about marks; he grasped Wilson's shoulders and arched his back, writhing at the attention, whimpers stuck in his throat, his legs opening farther in hope of more.

Wilson's enthusiasm increased ten-fold as he imagined how they must look, knowing that in a little while, he could replay the recording and watch it as many times as he could stand. His own erection bobbed between his legs, flesh engorged and pulsing to his rapid heartbeat, his balls full and aching. Just the thought of having House's blissful, desperate moans captured on his computer to peruse whenever the mood struck him left Wilson swallowing back noises of his own. He could listen to himself any time he wanted, but he didn't want to risk missing anything that snuck past House's lips.

Wilson left off with a nip of teeth that made goose bumps break out all over House's body, and then took to kneading handfuls of muscle and cushioned flesh below House's waist, massaging everything except the prominent organ in the center of his field of vision. Wilson leaned down to lick the bead of bitter fluid forming at House's tip, seeping about the foreskin. He despised the taste of it but he suspected that House secretly loved to watch him commit such dirty acts. While he was down there, Wilson teased the foreskin with his tongue, barely touching him at all, offering just enough contact that House would feel it and beg for more. Just before he drew back, Wilson's gaze flickered up to meet House's, and he let a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, his teeth bared.

Sure enough, House groaned softly and flopped back on the air mattress, pliant in Wilson's hands, his respirations shallow and off beat. That pose reminded him of their first time on the couch, the moment he had realized that he found House's body alluring, that it could turn him on. The long body splayed out before him, lean in most ways despite House's age, angles and planes in all the wrong places according to Darwin and popular behavioral science. Skin glistening from exertion, delicious tension leaving his muscles taut, defined just enough to remind Wilson that House was, handicapped or not, a virile middle aged man, Wilson's equal in strength, someone that he didn't have to be too careful with. Someone not prone to breaking if he got too rough. Someone just like him.

The picture evoked desires that Wilson often found wanting in physical relationships, even in the one he had with House. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the split moment in which Wilson paused to admire him, or more likely that earlier forbidden glimpse of feeling that Wilson was never meant to be privy to. Whatever it was, Wilson had never wanted something so much as he wanted House in that moment. To claim him, wreck him, to devour every ounce of passion that he could get and then claw more out of him, since passion seemed to be the only emotion that House let him see without reservations.

In that instant, everything in Wilson's world imploded on a pinpoint in his mind. This, all of this, belonged to him. Spoken or not, House loved him. Hell, House had probably always loved him somewhere behind the veil and the lies. None of Wilson's wives or girlfriends or one-night-stands had ever loved him this way – coveted the ordinary days spent with him, seen the true James Wilson and decided that he was good enough in all his concealed, flawed splendor, put up with his misguided attempts to fix the world even though it sometimes hurt to be the object of Wilson's focus.

Less than ten seconds were allotted to Wilson's epiphany, and he broke as if from a trance. House's chest heaved in arousal, his eyes sedately closed as he drank in the sensations of Wilson's hands roving over his body. Indeed, Wilson found that his fingers had migrated to cradle House's balls, the nails of his other hand scratching lightly down the throbbing vein on the underside of House's erection. House shuddered in spurts accompanied by an explosive breath or an unconscious clenching of his fists, which pulled at the sheets beneath him.

Wilson threw a staggered glance at the webcam, then focused back on House. He didn't want any preoccupation with the computer to mar this experience. He could sense how invested they both were in each other, perhaps for the first time, and that bore some sort of respect. He shook himself back into the moment and fumbled on the floor beside the air mattress for the lube bottle, which he pressed into House's hand before laying back and taking hold of his own knees to spread himself open.

House labored to sit up and crawled over Wilson with a predatory grin, his skin flushed. Wilson watched his gaze rake southward, accompanied by a fresh rush of Wilson's blood, and then House ducked his head to treat Wilson's cockhead like a lollipop. After all the foreplay, it was about the same shade of red, perhaps a little darker. Wilson only managed to suppress the urge to thrust until House slipped a lubed finger into him without warning him. Luckily, House had already lifted his head in anticipation of the reaction, and the cool air that House exhaled all over his groin sent a violent shiver coursing through Wilson's frame.

Wilson swallowed a moan and squeezed his eyes shut, spreading his legs farther and placing his feet back on the mattress, though he kept a firm grip on the insides of his own thighs, as if there were any danger of him closing his legs. House fondled him while he thrust his finger at a slow tempo. When he added a second finger, he simultaneously grasped Wilson's cock, and the next thing Wilson knew, House was stroking him hard and fast with his fingers massaging Wilson's prostate.

Wilson gave a strangled cry and arched, his head pressed into the air mattress, fingers clenched too tightly on his own thighs, but that grip was the only anchor he had. After the previous teasing, he hurtled way too far, too fast. He threw himself into House's hand, matching the pace he set, unable to stop the wave building in a tortuous feedback loop all about his cock and ass, his spine burning, balls tightening, his frame starting to go rigid as he bent himself farther back, his body curved away from the mattress.

A sharp pain in his nether regions wrenched Wilson back from the edge and he yelped as he fell back to the mattress. House grinned at the lusty outrage that must have shown on Wilson's face, and he rubbed Wilson's balls in apology before finally letting them go. "Sorry. Didn't want you finishing without me."

Wilson managed to sputter, "Prick," between gasps as his blood thumped in his ears. He had been so close just a moment that he couldn't come all the way back down from the high. A pleasant haze obscured most of Wilson's vision and he slid his feet closer to the rest of his body as House worked a third finger into him. A minute later, Wilson snapped, "Okay, I'm good." He squirmed away from House's fingers, impatient, and planted his foot in the middle of House's chest. "No more fucking around."

One twitchy eyebrow was all the response that House offered as he flopped back and waited for Wilson to mount him. They didn't do this all that often out of deference to Wilson's temperamental back, but Wilson couldn't feel anything right now besides the churning fire in his groin and the stark need to feel House come undone. The air already reeked of musk and sex, and Wilson happily breathed it in as he swung a leg over House's waist and groped around behind his back until his fingers closed on House's rigid cock. Wilson looked down as he positioned it at his opening, hoping to catch House's eye, but House had thrown his head back, his lids clamped shut.

Wilson bit his lip both in disappointment and anticipation, and lowered himself just enough to let the tip of House's cock breach him. It felt wonderful; Wilson was so relaxed that he probably didn't need to be cautious, but he waited a moment just the same, squirming around the intrusion. When he could take no more, he leaned back to brace himself on House's left knee, his curved in a concave arc, and slid down to sit on House's cock. He heard House grunt as he held back a moan. Just to be contrary, Wilson clenched his ass and reveled in the sharp hiss that this elicited from the man beneath him.

House grabbed his waist in a bruising grip to hold him still for a second and lifted his head for a glimpse of Wilson perched atop him. Then he scrabbled for a better handhold before he shut his eyes again. His hips shifted ever so slightly and Wilson straightened at the sensation of House rubbing across his insides, sweet friction near his prostate but not quite close enough. Wilson angled his torso backwards a bit more and House propped his left leg up to be helpful. With one hand to support himself against House's knee and a precautionary glance to ensure that he would not jar the bad leg, Wilson lifted his hips and then sank back down. House tensed in the best possible way and said something unintelligible, so Wilson let his eyes slide shut and repeated the motion.

"_Ohh_hh, fuck, Wilson." House rolled his hips to meet him and Wilson folded forward, his hands braced on House's chest. They jostled each other, both searching for leverage, and then Wilson circled his hips, his head bowed. He felt House's fingers tangle in his hair and ducked down to capture his lips, just a few quick pecks at the corners of House's slack mouth. When Wilson straightened again, House's pelvis twitched, his torso elongating as he arched his back. A throaty whisper drifted from House's lips. "Yeah…"

Wilson spared a glance for his laptop, please to find the picture focused dead center on them. He noticed House looking at him and turned to meet his gaze, but House had already thrown his head back into the air mattress by then. Wilson raked blunt fingernails from House's clavicle to his navel, watching House's body ripple to follow the stimulation, and then Wilson rounded his back, one hand on House's left knee for purchase. He extended his other hand forward, the pads of his fingers barely touching House's sternum, unconsciously adopting a very apt pose for the position he was in.

House's hands latched to Wilson's flanks, just beneath his ribcage, and Wilson looked down again as he started moving. He snatched his left hand back the second he realized what a cliché he made, a rather preppy cowboy on a homemade video, and fisted himself instead. He could see straight up House's nose from this angle, assisted by the way House's nostrils flared on each irregularly timed exhale.

And then House bucked into him at that perfect angle and Wilson arched back. "There – _there!_" Wilson followed that exclamation with an embarrassingly loud moan and flopped forward again, his palms slapping against House's chest. He pinched House's nipples because his hands were conveniently located and House reared up beneath him.

House's hands flew to clench Wilson's wrists, though Wilson didn't know if he wanted Wilson to let go or was simply hanging on. Wilson rolled the nubs between his fingers, tweaked them a few times, and then got a fresh grip before he tugged then just hard enough to hurt.

House gasped, his eyes flying wide open, and rammed into Wilson from below. "_Amphfuck!_" Then he hissed and threw himself back, and Wilson let go so that he could lean back against House's knee again. House squeezed his fists around handfuls of Wilson's sides and lifted his hips up off the mattress. Wilson rode him in earnest at that, his spine arched, braced with one hand behind on House's knee and the other scrabbling for some sort of balance point on the air mattress, his face tilted to stare rapt and unseeing at the ceiling.

Wilson basically humped the air, working himself on House's cock at a punishing pace, striking his prostate every time. His thighs burned, stretched in an awkward position, but the pain of it fizzled out the moment House wrapped his hand around his neglected cock. Wilson stiffened for a moment in blissful agony, then exhaled a string of profanity as House started pumping his erection, his fist slick with a combination of lubricant and sweat, and Wilson's precome.

Before he knew it, Wilson was whimpering with each thrust, both hands braced on the mattress outside House's thighs, his body bowed back, abdomen and glutes on fire as he slammed himself down on House's cock over and over, delicious floods of heat storming through his groin and up his back to his shoulder blades. He felt House shudder and freeze, his fist spasming on Wilson's penis as he lost himself. Pulsing heat shot up inside of him, bathing his prostate as House's cock twitched, and then colors exploded throughout Wilson's system.

Everything tightened and clenched and Wilson pitched forward, coming so hard he couldn't breathe, his forehead touching House's sternum, riding waves of pleasure, quaking with the force of it until he heard himself sobbing House's name, his muscles twitching with residual bursts, soft cries leaking from his lips as each one hit, too much to stand, and House was milking the last of it from him, one hand gripping Wilson's left butt cheek to hold him in that perfect place, the other squeezing and drawing long strokes down the length of his cock, tearing ribbons of agonizing ecstasy from every part of his groin.

Wilson gasped out a last helpless moan before his limbs turned to jelly. Then he slumped back, a movement just pronounced enough to stimulate his prostate once more on House's softening cock. He yelped at the unexpectedness of it, arching again with his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clenched over a wheeze. He gave a shuddering groan as it tapered off and pretty much collapsed off to the side after that, too spent to worry about whether House's leg was in the way or not. It must not have been since House's hand ended up lying palm-up on Wilson's stomach, fingers lax and slightly curled.

Wilson panted, every exhale a mere shade short of actual moans. He was sprawled with his head hanging off the air mattress, staring upside down at the edge of the coffee table. Clumsy but high on afterglow, he reached over his head and fumbled to turn the camera off. He heard House sigh somewhere off to his left and picked his head up just far enough to see him dozing off already. It made sense; House had been going strong for over three action-packed days. Even morning sex sent the guy teetering back to the edge of sleep; this should leave him positively comatose.

Wilson was on the verge of passing out as well, but his body thrummed with residual sensation too much to let him drift into unconsciousness, even if he did need it almost as much as House by this point. He picked up House's wrist and set it aside on the mattress, then gingerly rolled over. His body protested his choice of vigorous pastimes but the ache soothed him; he wouldn't trade any of it, knowing that he had stepped over a threshold with House that evening. And besides that, it had felt _damn_ good.

Once Wilson settled comfortably on his stomach, he dragged the laptop off the table and lowered it to the floor in front of him. A sudden weight across his back made him wince, but when he realized the cause, a grin broke out on his face. He craned his neck to verify that yes, House had draped his leg over Wilson's body. His calf fit snuggly in the hollow at the small of Wilson's back. Wilson tilted his head when he noticed that it was House's bad leg. Usually, House didn't want Wilson anywhere near his right side, especially not after sex.

With a last curious glance for his sleeping bedmate, Wilson turned to regard the laptop. The first thing he did was save the video file; he didn't want his shifty computer to delete it out of binary spite while he innocently played it back. He turned the sound off in deference to House and started it over from the beginning, then scrolled forward to the point where he had thought he saw The Look. Once there, he hit the pause button and scrolled through frame by frame until he found it. He stared for a while, blinking less than his dry eyes warranted, as if the frozen image came with a clock to self destruct, thereby protecting House from this inadvertent disclosure. Wilson traced the image with his index finger and wondered how he could have been sleeping with House for nearly six months, and yet never seen that look before.

Wilson cast a sad glance over his shoulder. House slumbered on, unaware of causing Wilson to feel a little bit hollow. Was that why House never faced him? Why he always took Wilson from behind? To mitigate the danger of Wilson catching him in the act of loving him? Up until recently, Wilson supposed that their relationship had been safe, in a House sense. There was little beyond the preexisting friendship aside from the sex. Perhaps House figured that if he kept it that way, shallow, then it wouldn't be a big deal if something went wrong. House had alluded a few weeks ago to needing the illusion of their friendship. Maybe he had been referring not only to the turmoil following Amber, but to the present and future as well. Maybe he needed the illusion that this didn't mean anything…his safe zone.

Wilson studied House's form, a lanky lump with arms akimbo, dominating the room even now. There was nothing small or fragile about House, nothing helpless, certainly nothing even remotely resembling the wilted flowers that characterized most of the women Wilson went out with. Nothing that needed sheltering, at least not on the outside. House was unsmelted intensity barely held in check, and all of that, he consented to offer up to Wilson, to do with as he pleased. House had been leaving himself vulnerable to Wilson for years already, but now, it was like House _wanted_ Wilson to have it. At some point, along with his overbearing strength, House had handed over his weakness too.

Wilson faced the computer again and contemplated House's captured expression. For several heartbeats, he considered deleting the video, a symbolic act to keep House safe from the implications of what they were to each other. But he didn't. Wilson wanted this reminder, to look back on whenever House said something cruel or retreated into his shell to bark spite at the world. He needed to know that whatever House might do or say, there was something precious underneath, something bare and human.

Wilson hit the play button again and watched the two of them go at each other like wild animals, then slow down enough to savor the experience of each other. Wilson frowned halfway through when he discovered that House's secretive smile was not a one time occurrence, and not the only silent expression of his innermost feelings. They were all over the place. How could Wilson have failed to notice it before? There were soft touches and glancing fingertips, things Wilson couldn't remember feeling in the heat of the moment, things that House didn't do in any other setting. The gestures weren't even sexual, just tender and careful. House practically worshipped him in tactiles while Wilson watched on, oblivious. If anything about House could be described as fragile, it was the way he touched Wilson, not as if Wilson might shatter, but as if House might just from being too near.

Every time the digitized Wilson looked down, House threw his head back, making sure that at his most open, he avoided eye contact. His palms on Wilson's sides acted like sensors. When he felt the muscles along Wilson's flanks elongate, his eyes snapped open and he looked again, safe behind Wilson's fevered throes, only to hide in the raw physicality of their actions the moment Wilson started to bow his head again. Real-world Wilson canted his head to one side and moved the cursor to replay parts here and there: House brushing a hand over Wilson's brow to smooth stray hairs away, a fingertip trailing a bead of sweat that trickled down Wilson's chest, the backs of House's knuckles running down the column of Wilson's throat, a gentle press of lips on the crown of Wilson's head when he folded over in the midst of orgasm…all sorts of simple gestures that Wilson had been too preoccupied to notice. These were the little things that Wilson had thought lacking, the depth he had sought after for months now under the assumption that House just couldn't express them. He did, evidently, but only at times when Wilson was bound not to notice. It made Wilson wonder what other sorts of things House did over the course of an average day, testaments that Wilson simply didn't see.

Wilson also noticed that House kept tossing worried looks at the computer when Wilson was otherwise engaged. The purpose of those glances eluded him until, at one point, House followed it by grabbing for a handful of the sheet and dragging it over his bad leg. He didn't want the scar to show up on the video. Wilson frowned when he did it a second time, and then averted his eyes from the screen when House merely angled himself the third time so that Wilson's thigh blocked it from view.

"Quit fawning over yourself, Adonis." House's voice was thick and grainy from sleep. "You're not _that_ much fun to look at."

Wilson shot him an incredulous look but managed to wipe his face clear before House's droopy eyes reached him. He couldn't help but laugh; House was so full of shit. He _did_ think that Wilson was that fun to look at. Instead of pointing that out, Wilson said, "I'm not the only one on this thing, you know."

House raised an eyebrow, only half amused. "Seriously. You need to pass out and stop breathing through your nose. It's driving me nuts."

"Mm." Wilson rolled his eyes and snapped the computer shut before House could notice himself revealed in all his glorious hypocrisy. "I'll buy you ear plugs so my heavy breathing doesn't disturb your beauty rest." A yawn snuck up on him just to taunt him with the promise of sleep, and Wilson hung his head, one hand automatically massaging the crick in his neck.

The air mattress bubbled as House abruptly sat up. "You're looking down."

Wilson turned his head without lifting it and glared from the corner of his eye. "My neck hurts."

"Not your head." House rose halfway up on his left leg, a muted shine glistening in his eyes. "You don't have a headache."

Even though it didn't sound like a question, Wilson replied, "No. I have a crick – "

"And you're looking _down_. Because your _neck_ hurts." House flung himself around and scrambled to gather his clothes from all over the floor. He muttered, "Morons can't even get the chief complaint right," under his breath and then stumbled to his feet with help from both his cane and an arm chair. "Get dressed."

Wilson flipped onto his back and peered up at House in irritation. "You solved the case, didn't you."

"Yeah, let's go." House tossed Wilson his pants, but nothing else, and limped to the door with way too much energy for a cripple who had been awake for four days. The man must have a secret stash of stamina stored up with his Vicodin.

Wilson gave an exasperated sigh, a delaying tactic, and glared at the ceiling. He wanted to be comatose right now. "House – "

The apartment door impacted the wall as House threw it open and hobbled through, carrying his shoes.

Wilson catapulted to his feet and hurried to the door. "Hey – wait!"

House peered over his shoulder, then scowled. "For god's sake, put on some clothes. You live in a building full of co-ed twenty-somethings. I don't wanna have to beat them all off of your admittedly perky and attractive body." Unfortunately, that complimentary threat didn't prevent him from disappearing into the stairwell without another word.

Wilson gave the empty hallway his patented look of death, then rushed to pull on whatever clothes he could find lying around before House decided to just leave without him.

-tbc


	17. Chapter 17

Wilson hurried outside to find House already in the passenger seat of the Volvo, tapping the head of his cane on the dashboard and making random faces at the empty night. It was a very House moment and Wilson actually blew a laugh out his nose as he climbed into the driver's side and accepted the keys from House.

"The kiddies are talking to the dad again," House reported. He flipped his cell phone in the air a few times, then stuffed it in his pocket. "Now we definitely need a new MRI."

"So, are you gonna let me in on the diagnosis?"

"Why would I do that?" House rolled his head along the headrest to peer at him. "It would totally ruin the reveal." He faced forward again and made a visible effort to still his fidgety third leg. "You get to wait like all the other idiots."

"Now, that's just not fair," Wilson protested. He checked the placement of all his mirrors before flipping on his turn signal and pulling out of his space. "I didn't get to see all the records and test results. For all you know, I could have come up with the answer before you."

House shot him an amused, tolerant look; Wilson distinctly felt the patronization. "Okay, wonder boy. Dazzle me. What do you think it is?"

Without a second's hesitation, Wilson replied, "Occipital neuralgia. Kid looks down to relieve pain that was misdiagnosed as migraine."

They stopped at a light and Wilson glanced over to find House staring, annoyed. When Wilson shrugged as if to demand what the hell his problem was, House proclaimed, "You cheated."

"Phht." Wilson pulled away from the stoplight, outwardly cool and inwardly flailing about in a gloating happy dance. "How?"

"I dunno yet. But you totally cheated."

"You know, they say that genius is contagious. If you spend enough time around a smart person, it changes the way you think." Wilson threw him a speculative look, just to gauge his mood. "Exposure to brilliance can actually raise a person's IQ."

One of those sarcastic smiles broke out on House's face, the sort that really didn't contain much humor. "Do you honestly think you can just suck up and make it all better? I don't need your praise."

Wilson gave him an indulgent smile and just kept driving.

After a few miles, House said, "Maybe I should bring you in on differentials. You're better than any of the half wits that work for me."

"Uhh…pass." Wilson concentrated on merging before adding, "Your department's only saving grace is that you have better coffee than the oncology lounge."

House thumped his cane on the floor mat, then turned halfway in his seat abruptly enough that Wilson startled toward the door. "Seriously. How did you get that?"

Wilson really wanted to keep it to himself so that he could tout it in House's face for leverage purposes someday, but House appeared genuinely distressed at the thought that he had missed something obvious. He probably didn't even realize that he was giving Wilson that old hound dog look, like Wilson stole his juicy bone right out from between his teeth just to be mean. "Your 'aha' moment," Wilson admitted. "I took a guess on what you would think up, not necessarily on what the patient has." His gaze flickered to House a few times, still frames of a slow smile and trademark smugness spreading over House's face. "Right, just say it. You're still the smart one, oh diagnostic guru."

House shrugged. Smugly, of course. "I've still got it."

"It's good to know that you measure your mental stamina against whether or not you can still out think me." Wilson narrowed his eyes without looking at him. "One day, you'll shamefully discover that you've become as common as I am, and your professional life will be over."

"Oh, good. We're on the same wavelength. Saves me the effort of explaining."

Wilson snorted. "Ass."

"Troll."

"Bum."

"Trollop."

"I think we're doing themed insults." Wilson raised a brow as he braked to a gradual halt at a red light.

"We should have a theme song. Then we can perform it with puppets."

"Already been done," Wilson pointed out. "We should get tickets."

"Totally." House contorted in his seat and dug his pills out of his jeans pocket.

Wilson refrained from commenting on the Vicodin, choosing instead to examine his cuticles. He needed to do something about them; the dry winter air made him consider a paraffin dip. He glanced at House. It was a good thing the man hadn't yet mastered the art of reading Wilson's mind; that last thought would have resulted in weeks of unrelenting mockery.

"Your fingernails are fine. Quit obsessing."

Wilson rolled his eyes and flared his nostrils at the windshield. He should have known that his every passing whimsy showed on his face in secret code that House could interpret without batting an eyelash. House's cell phone rang as the light turned green, and Wilson eased back up to the speed limit.

"My grandma drives faster than you," House commented as he flipped the phone open. "Sing to me. Did the jerk consent?" The very air changed as House's face blanked out. "Mom."

Wilson shot him a surprised look, then trained his eyes on the road.

"Yeah. That'll happen when somebody's avoiding your calls." House threw an inscrutable look out his window, then exchanged a glance with Wilson. He obviously didn't want to have this conversation, but Wilson suspected that he couldn't bring himself to just hang up on his own mother. House's eyes rolled to the ceiling and slid closed in feigned annoyance; from House's other body language, he probably felt something more akin to nausea. "No, I wasn't particularly worried. Wilson would've told me if you were dead."

"House!" Wilson alternated his gaze between the road and House. Then he pursed his lips and reminded himself that he had just gotten done telling Cuddy that House had a right to say whatever the hell he wanted to his mom. "Never mind. I'm not talking."

House kept his eyes on Wilson as he listened to whatever his mom was saying. He seemed like he might have been grateful for Wilson's backing off, but it didn't soften his features at all. Something Blythe said sent him into an animated fit and he straightened, aborting an urge to fling the phone at the dashboard. "Really? That's nice of her. You can tell her to fuck herself, with love, from me." He bit his lip over something more, then barked, "Like hell! No." A pause, and then House said again, more vehemently, "No!"

Wilson fought to keep his attention on the road for safety's sake, but he couldn't help being distracted. He wanted to desperately to know what Blythe was saying to House, but all he could hear was the tone of her voice, tinged in outrage with a hint of motherly pleading. How dare _she_ be angry? "Where does she get off?"

Wilson didn't process that he'd said that out loud until House cast him a confused glance. His mother soaked up his attention as soon as he did, and House tried several times to interrupt her, without success. Finally, he yelled, "Shut up! I don't care, okay? I'm glad you're not dead, but I'm _not_ going to sit down and have a heart-to-heart and get all weepy and bond over tea and cookies. And I'm sure as hell not apologizing to Sarah." His mother kept right on arguing, and House bowed his head in desperate exasperation, his fingers drifting to dig at his brow. "Mom…"

"Gimme the phone." Wilson jerked the wheel to one side and slammed his Volvo into park. "Come on." He twittered his fingers at House. "I want to talk to her."

House gave him a forbidding look, but he had obviously had more than enough. If House were anyone else, Wilson might have suspected his eyes of tearing up. It must have been the way the street lights filtered into the car. House pressed his lips into a thin line and Wilson watched his breathing pick up. There must not have been a convenient opening in the rant soon enough for him, because he squeezed his eyes shut a moment later and snapped, "Wilson wants to talk to you." He all but flung the phone at Wilson in his haste to be rid of the conversation.

Wilson spared a moment to watch House turn his entire body toward the window, then raised the cell phone to his ear. "Mrs. House?"

"_James! Thank goodness._" She sounded like she was already crying, though Wilson could only picture crocodile tears on account of his fresh hostility toward her."_You have to talk some sense – _"

"Did you know he almost died the night Sarah called him?" Wilson glanced at House, but House didn't react to his words.

Silence crossed the phone line, and then Blythe stuttered, "_Died? Died, Greg almost died?_"

"Yeah." Wilson shifted in his seat as if to wage battle. "He had a panic attack and accidentally overdosed on his pain meds. She told him he killed you by being himself. So no, I don't have to talk sense into him. He makes perfect sense from where I'm standing. And if you don't stop harassing him, I'll get a restraining order against you. If he wants to talk to you, he has your phone number. Stop calling." Wilson punched the end button and dropped the phone in House's lap. "There. Problem solved." Wilson put the Volvo in drive and tried to control the rage-induced shaking in his hands. He refused to look at House before he pulled back out into traffic.

They were silent for the rest of the drive. Wilson parked in his own spot since House's placard was in House's car at 221B. They remained in their seats after Wilson shut the car off, physically and mentally drained, listening to the engine tick and cool. He reached up to rip the impound tag off his rearview mirror; he had just retrieved the Volvo that morning. It needed a bath; he half suspected that the tow truck had dragged it through every pit of slush between House's apartment and the impound lot, with special emphasis on puddles of mud and oil slicks.

House turned to regard him warily from the passenger side. He appeared to rethink saying something, then blinked and licked his lips. "Thanks."

Wilson couldn't quite meet his eyes, but he turned in House's direction and nodded. "Sure thing." Wilson listened to House rustling about in the passenger seat, and then the rattle of the pill bottle broke through the almost companionable quiet. Wilson reached over and covered House's hand before he could thumb the cap off. "Habit. You just had one." He dared to look at House after that, expecting indignation and a fresh quarrel.

House merely stared at Wilson's hand, then at Wilson's knee, before returning the pills to his pocket. "Yeah. Gotta work on that."

Astonishment rendered Wilson speechless as House climbed from the car and slammed the door. He watched House limp carefully between two cars parked too close together, then clambered out as well, locking the Volvo behind him. He caught up to House on the sidewalk and tried to be unobtrusive about stealing speculative glances.

His grin caught House's attention, though. Of course. "What? You look all giddy and couply all of a sudden."

"You're trying," Wilson replied with a note of awe. "You're actually trying to get your Vicodin use under control. I thought it was a fluke earlier."

House peered at him from the corner of his eye. "Don't hug me again. I have enough of your cooties on me already."

Wilson snorted. "You like my cooties."

"I like _you_. Your cooties, I can do without." House glared at him. "Oh, for crying out loud. That was _not_ sentimental."

"Right. Sorry." Wilson wiped the smile from his face and cut in front of him. Just to be pointedly unsentimental, he let the hospital door swing shut in House's face. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder as House ran into the door, oomphed and swore. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was that…too un-couply?" Wilson waved a negating hand in front of himself. "Cuz I didn't want to smother you with all of my cooties and the stench of my caring."

House sidled through the door, caught as he was by one recalcitrant sleeve, and stopped in front of Wilson. "Tell your cooties they're not funny."

Wilson stepped aside as House made to knock him out of the way. "Right. That's why you're smiling." He plodded along in House's wake.

"I'm not smiling." House jabbed the elevator button, then cocked his hip to keep his weight on his left leg.

"Denial suits you." At House's look, Wilson poked his index fingers in the corners of House's mouth. In an elementary school teacher's syrupy voice, he explained, "This is a _smile_, Gregory. When the corners of your mouth do this little lifty thing – "

"We're slap happy," House declared, pulling his face out of Wilson's reach.

Wilson nodded gravely. "Sleep deprivation, yes." The elevator swished open and they boarded at the same time. "Think anybody will notice?"

House shrugged. "Anything we say or do can be denied once we've had a full night's sleep."

"That should bother me," Wilson said. "It means you plan to screw with your fellows at my expense." He shoved his hands in his pockets, unconcerned. "You know, this isn't a green light for you to embarrass me. We have to be drunk for that."

"Interesting choice of words."

"I'm not even sure what that means." The elevator dinged and deposited them on the fourth floor.

House stumped ahead of him and replied over his shoulder, "Watch and learn." He threw the glass door open so hard it bonged on its hinges. Then he stopped and grinned like an evil sprite. "Hello, kiddies. So sorry to drag you out of bed in the middle of the night. If you're nice, I'll get Wilson to buy you donuts."

Wilson rolled his eyes as he followed House into the DX room, then wandered over to the coffee maker. He could feel half his brain falling asleep on him, like a dolphin.

The second Wilson turned his back on the room, Kutner piped up with, "Did you get laid or something? You're kinda…happy."

Wilson took a spare coffee mug from the shelf over the sink as House replied, "Ask Wilson. He keeps track of those things for me."

The black marker squeaked across the white board in the otherwise quiet room, and then Kutner asked, "Doctor Wilson, did he get laid?"

Wilson turned from the sink, his cup full of coffee, stirring a spoon in it even though he hadn't added anything to it yet. "Uh, yeah. I recorded it and everything. For posterity." He stepped over to the table with the cream and sugar, and added over his shoulder, casual as all get go, "I'll send you a copy. Great times."

Kutner and Thirteen emitted a few good-natured chuckles, while Foreman covered his head as if he had just pictured it in his mind. Taub appeared, as always, supremely not amused. Wilson smiled absently at House, who gave him an impressed thumbs up that his body blocked from the others' lines of sight.

Kutner leaned his elbows on the table, scheming. "Did you both get laid?"

"Wilson _definitely_ got laid," House replied.

Thirteen perked up at that. "So, did you get laid together? Like, a threesome?"

House peered at the ceiling for a second, deep in thought. "Well, Wilson's persona was there too. Wouldn't shut up." He stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth and went back to scribbling symptoms.

"Hey, my persona is a delightful human being," Wilson said. Then he stopped talking because he wasn't sure that he was helping his case.

"So, wait." Kutner repositioned himself in his chair and folded his hands in front of him. "Did you, like, have a twosome then? Like, with each other?"

House shrugged. "Why not? Wilson's sorta pretty, if you're into girls. I'd totally hit that if I were a gay chick."

Thirteen scooted forward in her chair, warming to the joke. She wore this knowing look on her face that would have set Wilson on edge if he had all his faculties gathered about him. As it was, he watched the room through a caffeine-induced, sleepless haze. "So," Thirteen said, her fingers steepled. "Who tops?"

House and Wilson glanced at each other, but before either of them could come up with suitable banter, Kutner inserted, "I bet it's Doctor Wilson."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you." House turned in the middle of scrawling _occipital_. "Every time I ride you in the office, you can comfort yourself by knowing that once I go home, somebody else is riding me."

"Oh, come on!" Foreman yelled. "I did not need to know that!"

Kutner lit up like a Christmas tree. "Wait, it's true? You guys are doing it?"

"Oh, yeah!" Thirteen threw her pen down and raised her arms in victory before turning dead serious and holding her hand out to Taub. "Pay up."

They all exchanged handfuls of money while Wilson watched, bemused. House just fidgeted, his mood fouling by the second, then snapped, "Are you done yet?"

"Ooh." Kutner gave an odd twitch; it sort of reminded Wilson of House switching gears in mid thought. "Sex just wore off."

Wilson, as always, tried to gloss over the temper change. "He's sleep deprived. Just roll with it."

"Can it." House turned back to the white board. "Now, prove I'm not overpaying you free loaders and tell me what this kid has."

Thirteen leaned far to one side to see the board past House's torso. "Occipital neuralgia?"

"Congratulations. You can read." House glared at her over his shoulder, holding the marker like a cigar. "What's causing it?"

Foreman's brows fell between his eyes. "Tumor. C2 or C3, causing pressure on the spinal column – "

"Would've shown in the half-assed MRI," House interrupted. "Crappy or not, a tumor big enough to cause neuralgia would have lit up on the scan. What else?"

Taub suggested, "It could be idiopathic."

"_You're_ an idiop," House said. "Next?"

Thirteen offered, "Trauma? If the father is verbally abusive here, he might be physically abusive at home."

House shook his head. "We would've seen marks, bruises, something. And the kid doesn't have the right affect for an abuse victim. It's all mental." He shot Wilson a look to quell any imminent expressions of sympathy.

"He was in a car accident," Foreman said. "Whiplash could have compressed the cervical vertebrae and damaged the occipital nerves, leading to neuralgia."

"Except he was a baby," House replied, "strapped in a car seat, and the ER docs way back when did a CT to rule out head and neck injury."

Foreman insisted, "It's still possible. The other doctors could have missed it, and cervical spinal compression can be hard to see in an infant."

House capped his marker and Wilson admired his cool as he refrained from throwing it at Foreman. He dropped it in the white board tray instead, snatched his cane from where it hung on the white board, and stomped into this office. Wilson sipped his coffee, sedate and feigning indifference while House dumped the MRI films all over the floor and sorted through them with his cane. Half of WIlson was too tired to care what sorts of antics House got up to, while the other half was really curious to know what House had seen in a batch of substandard scans. A few minutes later, House bent awkwardly to retrieve a film and gimped back into the room. He flopped into a chair, slapped the film on the glass table, and jabbed a flashlight underneath to illuminate…Wilson stepped closer…the splotch of gray matter that he had asked Wilson about in the MRI room. The one that was not a tumor.

"See it?" House asked. His flashlight highlighted it; of course they saw it. He didn't wait for responses. "Know what that is?"

Kutner glanced up. "An artifact?"

"Nothing," Foreman said. "Kid couldn't hold still; he skewed the image."

"Or…" House paused to flip the film over. He had accidentally slammed it upside down. "Or, it's gray matter."

Taub gave him a bored look. "Uh, yeah. Like Foreman just said – "

"Chiari." Kutner rose so that his butt no longer touched his chair. "The cerebellum herniates, extending past the foramen magnum into the spinal canal. Gray matter is leaking out of his head, putting pressure on the spinal column."

Foreman stared, his eyebrows climbing in a gradual ascension. "It's possible." He made an impressed face. "It would explain the kid's symptoms. Unfortunately, this scan isn't good enough for a definitive diagnosis. No surgeon in their right mind would cut into the spinal column based on this."

Wilson bounced on the balls of his feet, then wandered to a chair in the corner, too wobbly to remain standing. He settled behind the desk by the bookshelves and put his feet up on a stack of files, his coffee cradled to his stomach. If House could get away with making a mess of Wilson's office, Wilson could leave footprints on his files with impunity. In the background, House gave orders for fresh MRI's, telling his staff to scare the father into consenting by any means possible, legal or not. Wilson let a bemused smile sneak past his lips as he his eyelids drooped shut. He would have a crick in his back if he stayed here long. Too late, though; he felt heavy, solid, smothered by sleep. Intent drained from his limbs and left him full of waterlogged cotton for thoughts. He didn't hear House moving around anymore, but someone doused the lights and draped a lab coat over him so he didn't worry about it. Muzzy images danced around behind his eyes, the coffee was removed from his slack hand, and then sleep claimed him.

* * *

"Hey, Wilson."

Wilson snored something irritated.

"I need you to work your magic."

"Mphzz…no."

"Wilson." The rubber tip of a cane jabbed him in a kidney.

Wilson started, but in a sluggish way. "Fuck you, House." Sleep…go away. "G'way. Sleep'n."

"The father won't consent. He's being stupid." House poked him again, but more gently. "I need you to tell him what a moron he is."

Wilson cracked a sleep-crusted eye open, beamed death rays at House, then clamped it shut again. "Tell 'im yerself. Yer good at callin' people morons."

"Yeah, but when you do it, they think you've complimented them. Come on." He stuck the end of his cane into Wilson's sternum and wiggled it back and forth. "I need him to consent."

Damn, damn, dammit. Couldn't he just sleep? "To surgery?"

"No, to a new MRI." The cane disappeared and Wilson heard House shuffling papers aside so that he could perch on the edge of the desk.

Wilson had to spend a few moments processing that, and then he blinked himself into something resembling wakefulness. "An MRI? He won't even let you confirm the diagnosis?"

House shook his head; he looked a bit like death warmed over, pale with bruised bags under his eyes, and jittery. He must have been guzzling energy drinks to stay awake. If the stimulants in those things made him too twitchy, his leg was going to spasm. "He wants a psych referral for the kid. Thinks he's just acting out." House bounced his cane on the carpet, then clarified, "For attention." As if there were another definition of acting out.

"But he's not," Wilson pointed out unnecessarily. "You can't fake syncopy, or elevated heart rate. And what sort of eight year old would know to only fake it during a valsalva maneuver?"

"I know," House broke in. He flared his nostrils and looked out the window past Wilson's shoulder. Dawn had not yet broken, but it would soon. "The kid could end up paralyzed if we don't do anything."

Wilson sighed. "Okay." Patients always came first, for both of them. "But after I talk to him, we're going home and sleeping. Cuddy owes us both personal days."

House nodded, but disclaimed, "Only if he consents."

"Fine." Wilson flopped his legs to the floor and waited for the circulation to return feeling to his feet. He should know better than to sleep propped in an office chair. It was a miracle House hadn't shaved his eyebrows or drawn obscene pictures on his forehead with a Sharpie. On second thought… "I'm going to the bathroom first."

"Don't worry," House said. He sounded way too innocent. "I didn't do anything to you that clothes can't cover up."

Wilson stared at him for a second, expressionless, then climbed to his feet. "I'm going to the bathroom first."

House shrugged and hopped off to his office.

Wilson was a little surprised (and, he ruefully admitted, disappointed) to find that House hadn't done anything to him at all while he was passed out. Though being House, he took the path of least effort. Why actually do anything to Wilson when a wag of an eyebrow and a mischievous smirk could drive Wilson to fits of paranoia all on their own?

Wilson used the urinal and then straightened his clothes after he washed his hands. Jeans and a dress shirt, tieless… Not the best look for a doctor to sport while advocating tests to a non-receptive parent, but he could look worse. The dark shadow of unshaven hair on his face, however, would need to go. Wilson didn't look nearly as good unshaven as House did, though he would never admit that he hadn't been joking about liking House's scruff. Luckily, he kept an electric trimmer in his office. A quick detour there, perhaps adding an emergency tie to his ensemble, and he would be ready to convince ostriches to fly.

Back in his office, Wilson had to rummage through his desk drawers in search of the trimmer; he hadn't needed it in a while since he had an apartment of his own to retreat to when he and House fought. He had his head shoved partway into a drawer so he didn't hear the knocking, and when he straightened with a triumphant arm pump halfway executed, Cuddy scared the crap out of him. The trimmer clattered out of his hand and he grabbed the back of his neck to help stave off any unmanly exclamations of fright. "Uh. Hi."

Cuddy raised her brows, amused despite her intention to remain stern. "I hear you've been here all night."

"House had a brainstorm." Wilson picked the trimmer back up just to occupy one hand and forced his voice down an octave. He really didn't need to run around squeaking like a teenager in the raging midst of puberty. "Can I do something for you? I have to go talk his patient's dad into a new MRI."

"House solved it?" Cuddy made a face the second she said it. "Of course he solved it. Never mind; that's not why I'm here." She shifted her feet, uneasy. "I found some records for you."

It took Wilson precious seconds to realize what she was talking about, and then he cast a reflexive glance out the balcony door. He could never be sure that House was safely out of ear shot. Only halfway convinced of their privacy, Wilson accepted the thin cream folder that Cuddy held out to him.

Cuddy offered an apologetic, queasy shrug. "I couldn't get anything else. The records are sealed."

"Sealed?" Wilson looked at the plain manila folder in his hand. "Why…?" He shook his head and matched her posture, uncomfortable about rooting around behind House's back.

"Because the officer who filed the initial complaint requested it." Cuddy looked away and picked at her fingers. "He didn't want the investigation to affect his prospects for advancement." Her eyes wandered to Wilson's again. "He served under House's father for a while but they wouldn't even give me his name. Apparently, he filed the report on Blythe's behalf, not House's." She shrugged, scratched near her ear, then looked straight at him. "That's all I can do, James. I'm out of favors." She raised a hand as if to surrender, shook her head, then left. Sharp clicks, even as a metronome, carried her away down the hall.

Wilson looked at the folder, blank on the outside. There weren't many pages inside but he thought Cuddy seemed a little spooked by it. He nearly leapt out of his skin when he heard movement on the balcony. With a glance to verify that House was still on his side of the dividing wall, Wilson smushed the folder into his lap drawer and made a show of plugging in the beard trimmer.

House tapped on the glass door a moment later; the uncharacteristic politeness was probably due to Wilson holding an electrical appliance capable of scarring his smooth cheeks, were he to jump at an unexpected racket blowing whirlwinds into his office. He remained quiet while Wilson ran the trimmer over his face, feeling at intervals to make sure he didn't miss anything. Part of Wilson quaked to be in a room with a silent House perched in distraction on the arm of his couch. Wilson wouldn't put it past him to sit in his conference room with a stethoscope pressed to the wall, eavesdropping. The last thing Wilson wanted was for his subterfuge to be discovered. He hoped to burn the folder and its contents long before House had a chance to 'accidentally' come across it while snooping through his office for evidence of…well, for evidence of whatever the hell House searched for evidence of when he got on one of his pseudo-stalking kicks.

Wilson switched the trimmer off once he figured that House would start to get suspicious of him delaying conversation. The absence of buzzing left a roaring in Wilson's ears. He schooled his features into something that he hoped passed as bland before he turned around. "Hey. Ready?"

House's head fell to one side. "You need a vacation or something. You look like crap."

"Thanks." Wilson forced a wry smile and returned the trimmer to the nether regions of his bottom desk drawer. He pulled a tie out from under a pile of trinkets but it was too wrinkled to be decent; he would look better without it.

"Mutter."

Wilson stayed bent over his drawer, but he lifted his head to peer past the rim of his desk. "What?"

"For a vacation." House thumped his cane around between his feet without looking at Wilson. "You seem like that educational vacation, history crap sort of person." He stopped playing with his cane and peered at Wilson from under lowered brows, carefully gauging Wilson's response to his words before going on. "And it won't totally suck for me. We can guzzle laudanum and quinine, and carry around bone saws for a week."

An easy smile snuck onto Wilson's face. House seemed so guileless. "Bone saws?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged, his expression much more reserved than Wilson's, almost shy.

"You'd go to Philadelphia?" Wilson toed his desk drawer shut and straightened. "You hate vacations that don't involve you lounging around in your underwear getting waited on by bikini-clad resort personnel. And the Mutter Museum requires walking. And being civil."

House moved his shoulders to dismiss Wilson's points. "There are benches. And you can wait on me, but I prefer you nude." He eyed Wilson with a distasteful twist of his lip. "The thought of you in a bikini is ruining my appetite."

"And the part about being civil?" Wilson rounded the desk and perched on the corner with his hands in his pockets.

"As Meatloaf said, two outa three ain't bad," House replied. "I can't possibly unwind if I have to refrain from telling morons that they're moronic." His gaze strayed to a corner of the room, an absent smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Although, I wouldn't necessarily advocate taking advice from a guy who named himself after a log of processed cow."

Wilson smirked. "No insulting the hotel employees."

House pouted. "Spoil sport."

"I'm serious!" Wilson stood and pulled his hands from his pockets so that he could put them on his hips. "Last time you spoke to a bell hop, I had to buy him off so he didn't lodge a complaint with management."

House's face morphed. "You bribed that jerk? He deserved it!"

Wilson put a hand up to ward him off. "I have a patient to see. Your patient, actually. Don't bite that hand that feeds you."

House lumbered upright and trailed Wilson to the door. "Speaking of food, I'm starving. Let's get a donut after you scam this guy."

Wilson turned with his hand on the door knob to give House an incredulous look.

"Um…thanks for bribing a bell hop for me? It was really romantic, considering we weren't even doing it yet." House paused, then added for good measure, "Moopsie."

"You're unbelievable." Wilson opened the door and stalked out into the hall, though he was in a much better mood than he had been when House scaled their balcony divider.

House's lopsided footsteps followed him to the elevator. "You know, the unspoken law of adages says that if you _don't_ feed me, I am free to bite you with impunity."

Wilson glanced over his shoulder and took note of the other hospital personnel standing behind them, also waiting for the elevator. "Fine. But if you draw blood again, I'm muzzling you."

House's eyebrows twitched. "Hm."

When the elevator arrived, they got it all to themselves. Go figure.

* * *

"Look." Wilson held up his diplomacy hands, spread at his sides to display his complete and utter equanimity. "A replacement MRI will give us a definitive answer. Once Doctor House's team confirms the Chiari – "

"You'll cut out chunks of my kid's brain." Mister Whatever-the-hell-his-name-is reached the wall on the opposite side of his son's bed and spun to pace toward the bathroom again.

Wilson really wished he could remember the guy's name. He should have insisted on finishing his nap to bolster himself before coming down here. The man's pacing made him dizzier than the sleep deprivation, and he could feel his usually checked temper fraying at the continued ignorance on display in front of him. "If gray matter is herniating into your son's brainstem, then surgery is the only treatment. The offending tissue won't be functional anyway. If it's not removed – "

The father came to an angry halt and advanced on Wilson too quickly for civilized company. "There's a possibility of brain damage," he barked as Wilson backed away a step. "The other doctor said he could lose some of his long term memories, even have to relearn daily skills – "

"Sir." Wilson held his palms out to ward the guy off. He didn't like the hostility coloring the guy's tone, especially since the man was in his face like this. From House's unwavering stare where he lounged against the far wall, much less relaxed than his stance suggested to a casual observer, House didn't like it either. "Leaving it like it is can result in permanent paralysis, mental retardation and progressively worsening – "

The father got right up in Wilson's face and bellowed, "He's _not sick_!"

Wilson threw House a look of concern mixed with unease as the father turned and stalked to the window. Beside Wilson, the patient merely watched his folded hands and lost himself in thought. Wilson pursed his lips in sympathy for the little boy caught in the crossfire and wondered if the mother might be more receptive. Truth be told, Wilson didn't think the mother was part of this equation, though; House hadn't mentioned her and Wilson had yet to see anyone with the boy aside from his irate father.

Wilson sucked in a breath to steel himself and tried again. "Skills can be relearned. Memories…they'd be event memories, most likely. If the choice is between memory loss or death, I'm sure he can stand to forget a few things." _Like his asshole parent_.

House mouthed, _Charm him, _and made a rude gesture at the father's back.

With a sigh, Wilson added, "If this is Chiari, it can be fixed. He won't experience any of the symptoms that brought him here."

"Unless it recurs," the father argued. Not that this was much of an argument, but ever since Wilson had said that five minutes ago, the father wouldn't let it go. "And then he'll need more surgeries, right? And more drugs, more…more rehabilitations?"

Wilson actually backed up a step as Mister Patient's Dad rounded the bed to get in his face again. He had to force himself to stand his ground, though his gaze flickered to House. "Yes, that's true. But if you just allow it to progress – "

"That black guy, the neurologist – he said the surgery's painful. He said – "

House interrupted at that point and Wilson was relieved when the father's focus shifted. "Quit being an idiot. He's already in pain." House tossed a disdainful gesture at the boy in the hospital bed, clearly fed up with the unreasonable father.

Wilson stepped forward when the father did; he could see veins thumping in the guy's neck. "House – "

"It doesn't even matter," House went on. He pushed off of the wall, though, and Wilson thought that House's stance indicated readiness for a fight. His knuckles tightened over the head of his cane and he turned a bit to one side to partially shield his bad leg. "You won't even let us confirm the diagnosis."

"I gave you an MRI!" The father strode up to speak right into House's face. Only Wilson could have recognized the flinch that House suppressed at that. "I gave you blood tests and CT scans, I let you stick needles in his spine – "

"We couldn't use the films!" House yelled back, and then he visibly calmed himself, withdrawing just enough to not have hot breath blown in his face. "You're getting worked up over nothing. We don't even know for sure that he _has_ a chiari malformation."

Coming from House, that was such a reasonable statement that it actually set off warning bells in Wilson's head. House never voiced the possibility that he was wrong, not even when he himself suspected that he was wrong. He would couche it in sarcastic mumblings and snarky jokes, and then move on to the next possible diagnosis without revisiting the issue. This father was getting to him.

The father pranced to shift his weight, more confrontational now than he had yet been during this consult. "I want a psych referral. He's _not_ sick. He needs to learn not to play games like this."

House started and then took an unwise step forward, back into the father's personal space, too close to be anything other than threatening. "You're son's not faking," he hissed through nearly clenched teeth. "He needs _treatment_. For an _illness_. You're the one who needs therapy. You can't even admit the possibility that he's actually sick. You're too obsessed with trying to make him perfect, like that's good for him."

The father narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to tell me how to raise my son?"

Wilson resisted the impulse to cover his eyes and silently chanted, _don't shrug, don't shrug – don't do a House maneuver, just for once – _

House shrugged as only House could, contempt and ego and professional opinion all rolled into one lift of the shoulders, and Wilson glanced out into the hallway in hope of help. Any help. A candy striper would do to break the rhythm of this discussion. When he looked back, House had already opened his mouth to say, "Somebody has to. Cuz you suck at it."

All Wilson saw was a fist in the air, not House's fist, and he lunged to grab the guy's arm. The move threw them both off balance and they crashed into the bed, Wilson running on bravado and the father on something else entirely. They upset the tray table and crayons ended up all over the place, the little boy yelped as the weight of two men nearly crushed him, and then House was in the fray, peeling the guy off Wilson with his cane crushing the guy's windpipe. Somehow, House dragged the guy back far enough to dump him on the floor, kicking and spitting. By then, security was on the way and Wilson just stayed where he was, half sprawled in the end of the patient's bed, gawking at the display. The guy was a lunatic; to say that he was overreacting to the situation would be an understatement, though trying to punch House was a usual occurrence.

House backed off as soon as a few burly male interns ran in to keep the guy pinned on the floor, and Wilson edged around the bed to get away from the guy's flailing legs. A glance at House verified that he was fine, and then Wilson checked the patient. For a little boy who had just witnessed his father try to strangle a doctor, he was far too calm. Wilson watched the child for a moment, perturbed, and then looked back up when security arrived.

It took a while to smooth things over with the guards and get them to release the irate father, who continued to insist that he wanted a psych referral. House disappeared, which Wilson had expected, though it annoyed him to be left cleaning up after him yet again. Thankfully, Cuddy was stuck in a meeting and he didn't have to field her too. After several minutes of arguing, hampered by the idiot, verbally combative dad, Wilson persuaded the security guards to leave and assured the father that every measure would be taken to help cure his son. The dad took this to mean that Wilson would get the boy transferred to the psych department, but Wilson had no intention of doing that. He pleaded with the father to reconsider and then left him to speak to hisboy, but Wilson lingered in the hallway, watching.

The father took one look at the boy, said something that made him pick at the crayons scattered all over the bed, and then stormed out. Wilson scrambled out of his way, wary of getting caught up in another altercation, and waited for the elevator doors to close on the overexcited man. Then he peered back into the patient's room. The little boy's gaze was fixed on the elevator and Wilson rubbed absently at the perpetual tension gathered in the back of his neck. There was nothing more he could do here; the boy wasn't his patient and House… He didn't know what to do about House either, so he wandered away, aimless.

When he finally got back to his office, Wilson took one look at the lap drawer of his desk and then turned away. He didn't want to read that stupid file anymore; whatever Cuddy had found, she was right. It's wasn't like he could help House by dredging up his long-healed scrapes and boo-boos, but he couldn't quite bring himself to just throw the thing away. He had too much in common with House, a fact that he tried way too hard to deny. He wanted to know for no other reason than to have the information.

That whole issue required more fortitude that Wilson had at the moment; he just wanted to go to sleep and forget about things for a while. He was too tired to keep coping with everyday occurrences. His couch invited him to stretch out as much as its dimensions allowed and Wilson sighed. Brown was already covering his appointments and if Wilson kept going at this rate, he would burn out in a record forty-five minutes. So he gave in and let the couch hold him, wishing it was House instead. A happy, well-adjusted House.

"Grow up," Wilson muttered to himself. There was nothing in the world capable of giving him that.

* * *

Wilson started as his office door banged open, then flung his arm over his eyes and tried to sink into the cracks between the couch cushions. "What now?" He heard House stump toward him, then the coffee table squeaked as House sat down on it. Wilson cracked an eye open to find House examining him way too intently for comfort. "How many of those energy drinks have you had?"

House shrugged. "Enough, probably." He leaned to one side even though he didn't need to; his pills were in his blazer pocket. "Why do you ask?"

"You get this creepy stalker-slash-unibomber look when you're wired." Wilson covered his eyes again, but not before he caught a glimpse of that look that House got on his face while contemplating breaking into someone's home just to pointlessly sift through personables. "Yeah, like that one. It's like the movie 'Misery' and you're Kathy Bates."

House glared for a second, then gave the loudest, most over-the-top fake laugh he could manage. "Oh, I get it. That's funny!" Though his face turned absent, he was still half-smirking when he glanced toward the balcony door, lost in a thought or two. "I'm bored." He looked down at Wilson again, completely serious, and said, "Let's have sex."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I'm too tired and you're too insane."

"Why would a guy…who wants a perfect kid…prefer that he be mentally ill, which is manageable but not curable, rather than physically ill, which can be corrected with surgery?"

Wilson watched House chew the inside of his cheek, staring blankly at the blinds behind the couch. Of course – by bored, House meant confused and in need of a distraction before pondering the inconsistencies of the dad's behavior drove him completely bonkers. "As much as I would love to quell your restless impulse to ramble and annoy people, my head is killing me." Or it would be in about twenty minutes. Lack of rest was twisting his neck and back into painful knots which were already trickling up to embed twinges in his forehead. "And no comments from the peanut gallery about cock blocking you with a fake headache. We haven't gotten to that point in the relationship yet."

"It's not a relationship, Wilson."

The comment seemed robotic; Wilson wondered how long House had been denying that a relationship existed. Actually, he wondered how long House had _wanted_ a relationship with him. If he could put a clock on the first stirrings of interest, he might have said that House toyed with the idea as far back as Wilson's last divorce. House had liked having him in the apartment, even if he had expressed his affection the same way that second graders do when they punch out a pretty girl. Hm. He'd just compared himself to a prepubescent girl. That was rich.

"Do you need anything for it?"

Wilson cracked his eyes open against the light filtering through from the balcony. "Did you just offer to do something nice?"

"No." House scoffed. "I asked if you needed anything. I didn't say I'd actually get it for you."

"Oh, right." Wilson hid his eyes under his arm and turned toward the back of the couch. "Silly me."

A few seconds passed in silence; Wilson could actually hear House watching him. "Seriously." House had lowered his voice several decibels and he seemed to have pitched it for minimum affront. "Do you need something?"

Paper rustled in the space between them and Wilson figured that House had pulled out his prescription pad. Wilson sighed. "Much as I appreciate the gesture, I'm not as easily pacified as you. Pills won't buy my undying affection." It didn't really hit him, what he had just said. Wilson's brain was floating in that indeterminate space between consciousness and altered migraine aura.

Cloth whispered near the coffee table. "Prick."

Wilson moved his arm far enough to find that House had stood and crossed most of the room in silence. A script sat on the coffee table in House's place. Wilson's heart sank a little.

There was no kindness in House's voice when he spoke again, though he kept it toned back in deference to Wilson's pounding skull. "Metaclopramide. Take it with some acetaminophen and it'll help lessen the symptoms." He flung the door open and stepped into the hall, then caught the door a second before it would have banged shut. The last thing Wilson heard was a soft click of the door latch and a few stumps as House gimped off.

Wilson stared at the empty space that House had just occupied. Dammit. Why did he keep doing that? And why did House keep taking him so damn seriously when he did? That irritating little internal Wilson replied that it was because House knew him, and he knew when Wilson's sarcasm _wasn't_ just a front – when he used it to voice a subtle truth. Stupid little internal self could have piped up earlier, Wilson thought.

He fumbled a hand toward the script and squinted to read the dosage. His vision was starting to blur already, a combination of headache and exhaustion, so he left off and lumbered to his feet instead. It took some stumbling and a downright painful trip in the brightly lit elevator, but Wilson made it to the pharmacy. Marco asked him if he wanted House's scripts too, which Ngyen had evidently phoned in for him, so Wilson ended up with a small sack of pill bottles. He wondered if House had remembered to keep his PET scan appointment. Wilson didn't think that House would just brush it off again, but the guy had this habit of getting too distracted to do much of anything besides obsess over his current case.

Back in his office with the blinds drawn and the lights off, Wilson sifted through so many pill bottles that he felt like one of his own patients. He could hardly read the labels in the dim illumination but he eventually found one that looked like it had his name on it and thumbed the cap off. He took two since he had seen that number on the script that House had left and then followed it with two tablets of generic acetaminophen from the bottle he kept in his desk. Thus medicated, Wilson scrunched himself into the couch with his lab coat for a blanket and his arm for a pillow. He could already feel a numbness creeping in and it lulled him down into a peaceful half-sleep. His headache was already fading. Cool. He grinned to himself, feeling a little euphoric, and dozed off. House the physician totally rocked.

* * *

"House. Hey." Wilson nearly fell over the balcony divider and then shuffled as carefully as possible into House's office. "Hey. Whadid you give me?"

House glanced over his shoulder, then gave Wilson a quick once-over. "Metaclopramide. What did you take?"

Wilson scrubbed a hand down one side of his face then blinked his eyes as wide open as they could get. "Wow. You're all wrinkled. Don't you iron…stuff?"

A guffaw drew Wilson's attention to Kutner, who was standing on the other side of House's desk with a file hanging loosely from one hand and a still steaming coffee in the other. Wilson watched the steam drift in a lazy curl over Kutner's hand.

"Earth to Wilson!" House snapped his fingers in front of Wilson's face.

Wilson gave a sluggish flinch to find him so close. "When did you get so tall? You're like…" Wilson lifted a hand way over his head to demonstrate, then nearly fell over backwards as he squinted to see how high he'd put it. Four hands kept him from bashing his own head on the x-ray light box on House's wall, and he smiled stupidly at Kutner. "Hi."

Kutner grinned. "You are so stoned."

Wilson balked, which nearly upset his balance again. "Am not." He caught House's eye, absorbed the half smile threatening to tug House's lips up, and said, "You drugged me."

"I don't do repeat performances. This time was all you, sport."

Wilson squinted at him, then glanced around the office. "Hey. Where'd Kutner go?"

"To your office to find out what you actually took." That little smile was still seeping all about House's mouth, twitching things and brightening his eyes.

Wilson grinned. "You're pretty." Then his eyes drooped and he found himself contemplating House's button down. "Oh my god." He grabbed House's collar. "It's _wrinkled_! House, you can't wear this." He started tugging at the shirt to get it off.

"Hey, quit trying to undress me." House brushed his hands off but Wilson kept on pulling at fabric, insistent. "Okay, okay. Knock it off."

Kutner came back in at that point, via the balcony, and Wilson saw the baggie of prescription bottles in his hand. "Hey, those are mine." Wilson snatched it, then thought for a second. "No, yours." He pressed them against House's chest, a self-satisfied grin breaking out across his face. "Yeah. I got yours too. They're…where's mine?" Wilson opened the bag while House held it and rummaged the bottles around.

"Wow." Kutner again. He sounded like he was laughing. "I wish I had a video camera."

House muttered, "Shut up." Then he pulled the pill bag out of Wilson's reach and dumped it on the desk behind him. "Hey, Wilson. How many pills did you take?"

"Like…two. Of each." Wilson blinked at him, sleepy and inexplicably happy. Smug, even. Yeah. He was smug. House liked him smug.

"Hey, look here." House snapped his fingers in WIlson's face again and then ducked down to peer into his eyes. "You look okay. No jaundice."

"Jaundice? Oh my god." Wilson's cheer left him at breakneck speeds. "I forgot…your shirt's all…rumply. You can't wear that." He grabbed for a button and tried to shove it through the hole. "Stupid…won't unbutton."

Kutner laughed outright at that. "It's already unbuttoned, Doctor Wilson."

"Oh." Wilson stared at the button, then tipped his head up to look at House. "When did you get so tall?" He leaned to one side so that he could see their shoes, and then mournfully proclaimed, "We're so far away from the floor."

"Oh my god, you're stupid." House grabbed Wilson's arm and pushed him toward the door. "I'm taking you home."

"With the wrinkles…I can iron that at home. Yeah." Wilson slogged his way over the carpet, then abruptly spun back. "You can't wear that like that!" He lowered his voice as far as possible and hissed, "People will _see_."

As Wilson attacked House's buttons again, Kutner snorted and remarked, "It'll be easier if you just take it off."

"I need a hanger," Wilson mumbled. He couldn't manage to undo the button slipping between his fingers. "Can't let it get more wrinkly. Maybe…we can smooth it down." He left off trying to unbutton it and emphatically smoothed the fabric over House's frame. Then he paused to examine his work before brutally smoothing the fabric some more, mashing the especially wrinkly parts against House's body.

House braced himself on his cane, his balance threatened by Wilson's exuberance. "Wilson…"

Wilson stopped and peered at House's face.

"Quit feeling me up."

Kutner burst into laughter behind him and Wilson turned to watch him wander into the conference room. He slowly faced House again, confused and sad. "But it's wrinkled."

House's tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, and then he made a face at the ceiling as he pulled off his outer shirt. "Here."

Wilson accepted the shirt and solemnly folded it over his arm. "I promise I won't let you get wrinkly again, House." He tried to smile at House, but it was just so hard. "Friends shouldn't let friends get rumples."

"It's okay. I forgive you." House took his arm again and steered him toward the door. "Let's go now."

Wilson ran his hand over the shirt while they waited for the elevator. Then he peered past it to the floor. "Hey, I must be like…six feet tall." He turned to eye House, suspicious. "You're like…more than that. You hafta be like six feet two feet…um…taller."

"Yeah. I'm a giant." House propelled him into the waiting elevator and jabbed the button for the lobby while Wilson contemplated the wrinkles on the button down. "You took my Vicodin, by the way. Cuz you're an idiot."

"Am not." Wilson peered around the otherwise empty elevator. "There's no hangers in here, House. I need a hanger or it'll get worse." He frowned at the shirt hanging over his arm. "Or one of those mannequin thingies like at the suit shops. The adjustable ones. With the…the shoulders and…you know." Then he got an idea. "Hey! I've got shoulders."

House's eyes drifted to watch him but he didn't move any other part of his body.

When they exited the elevator, Wilson was wearing House's button down over his dress shirt, inordinately pleased with himself as he smoothed it's rumpled lines over his own body. No more wrinkles. Or fewer wrinkles, anyway. That was better. Much better. "Hey." Wilson stopped in the middle of the lobby, which forced House to stop as well. "I smell like House." He sniffed at the air, then leaned over until he had his nose near his own armpit. His face turned baffled. "I stink."

"Okay, we're done here." House grabbed him by the collar of the button down and dragged him forward.

"Hey, hey – you're wrinkling it again!" Wilson seized his fingers and tried to pry them off. "House, I don't have any more shoulders here – you can't wrinkle it!"

"Wow."

House and Wilson both stopped short to regard Chase, who had apparently just returned from lunch off campus.

Chase raised his eyebrows and gestured at Wilson. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing!" House let go of Wilson's collar and Wilson took deep breaths to slow his heart rate. "Why do these things always have to be my fault?"

"Because you're sneaky, and you stink," Wilson replied. "In fact, you smell just like House." He peered at House. "That's just weird. What'd you do? Get You cologne?"

House shot Chase a bemused look.

Wilson regarded Chase carefully. "Do you have a hanger? House is wrinkled. I got his shirt, though." He fingered the button down and presented the absent air a smug grin.

"He was supposed to take metaclopramide," House explained. He sounded sort of sheepish, and Wilson gave him a sympathetic look. "I'm guessing he couldn't focus enough to read the labels."

Wilson blinked as a wave of dizziness gripped him. He latched onto House for balance, aware of Chase's hand steadying him on the other side when House lurched under the unexpected weight. "I think I'm gonna be sick." He closed his eyes for a second and inhaled House's shirt.

House's voice rumbled through his chest and into Wilson as he said, "Hey, don't pass out. If you go down, I'm leaving you."

Wilson's eyes shot open to the sight of House's tee shirt. "What?" He pulled back and stared at House, eyes wide and tearing. "No, you can't…they're just wrinkles! Look." He pawed at the button down and thrust the tails under House's nose. "I can iron it. You don't hafta leave me."

Chase offered, "I don't think that's what he meant."

"Of course it is! He's paranoid." Wilson stumbled back a step and struggled to divest himself of the button down.

"Wilson."

Wilson stopped moving with the shirt stuck around his elbows.

House stuck his face close to Wilson's and intoned, very carefully, "I'm not going to leave you. We're just going to drive home so you can sleep this off."

Wilson started. "Oh." His gaze trundled away and eventually alit on Chase. "Did you know he smells like House?" He hooked a thumb at House.

Chase just looked at him, slack-jawed, and then turned to House. "What did he do, take half the bottle?"

"Hey, I had two," Wilson snapped. "And he drugged me. I didn't take them." His eyes fumbled their way to House again and he accused, "You switched the bottles. I know you. And I'll prove it."

House rolled his eyes. "Come on, Clouseau. We're leaving now."

Wilson stumbled as House grabbed him by his half-removed button down and hauled him toward the doors. "Hey, hey, wait – I lost my shoulders." He tried to get the button down back on but House's hand hampered him. "House, the wrinkles!" He wrenched his arm free and frantically set about trying to smooth the fabric of his second shirt.

"Here." Someone helped him get the shirt back on the right way and Wilson sighed in relief when he eventually managed to get his gaze focused on Chase.

House appeared over Chase's shoulder. "Mind waiting with him while I go get the car? He might do something…you know…dumb."

"No problem," Chase replied. He smiled and Wilson shut his eyes while he smiled back, his whole face thrown into the effort. Chase was nice; he deserved to get smiled at. At some point, House left, and Wilson just stood there, grinning. Chase appeared to be fighting the impulse to laugh outright. "So," Chase opened. "How are things going with House?"

"Things," Wilson replied. Was he slurring? No. He wasn't drunk, so he must just be hearing things wrong. He waved a hand at his own thoughts. "They suck. Cuz I'm an idiot and he's just sad. Didja know…House…wow, though. He can do this thing…" Wilson licked his lips. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" Chase glanced around furtively and Wilson leaned in when he did. "Does this thing have a name?"

Wilson blinked a few times and fingered the shirt he was wearing over his shirt. "People are staring." His hand migrated to the back of his neck and he bunched the skin in his hand.

"You're high as a kite. Don't worry about it." Chase drew him off to one side of the lobby, near a fake potted plant. "So this thing…?"

Wilson widened his eyes. "I looked it up. It's called… You're not gonna tell, right?" Wilson frowned. "Hey, you're sorta wrinkled too." He brushed at Chase's shoulders and then swayed on his feet. Chase caught him with a barely concealed glint of humor on his face. "Hm…sorta wobbly," Wilson mumbled, then grinned like an idiot. "Oh, this…you gotta get him to give you a blow job. Oh-hoh." Wilson couldn't stop himself from giggling as he tried to keep his feet under him. "It's like…" He twittered his fingers and then sank down onto a cushy bench because his legs wouldn't support him anymore.

Chase sat next to him and craned his neck to look at Wilson. "Keep talking. I'm good at listening."

"So is House. He's always… But I'm not supposed to know. He listens _all_ the _time_. And he doesn't just remember the words, either. It's the way you say it, and your face when you say it, and where you're standing and if you have guacamole on your tie. _Everything_. It's like a freak show." The mirth gradually trickled away and Wilson furrowed his brow. "I suck at listening. You know, he talks and it's like…I have a House filter. I gotta pay attention more." His gaze wended its way over to Chase. "People aren't supposed to know about us, you know. I think we sorta told his fellows. They made bets."

Chase seemed less amused at this. "Why aren't people supposed to know?"

Wilson cast him a mournful look and Chase's face swam. Stupid whatever pills. "Cuz I'm an idiot. What if people think…stuff?"

Chase's eyes narrowed. "What sort of stuff?"

"I'm not gay," Wilson asserted. Then he sniffed the air and followed the scent to his second shirt. "Mm."

"Hey, Wilson?"

Wilson looked up and found Chase regarding him severely. His eyebrows dipped in consternation.

"You should probably get over it. Soon. Or you're gonna hurt him."

"Hey, no," Wilson said. The sudden animation of his limbs left him discombobulated for a second, until he realized that he was already sitting. He devoted his attention back to Chase. "I'm not ashamed. It's not ashamed-ed…ness."

"Yeah," Chase countered. "It is. And you need to get over it before he figures it out."

"But he already knows. I told him it's not him. It's people." Wilson started to smile, then froze. "That's bad."

Chase's eyebrows climbed north. "Yeah, it's bad. What are you trying to do? Make him feel worse?"

Wilson shook his head so hard that he had to close his eyes for a second. "No, no, no. No. He already thinks he's crap. I'm suspso…susp…posed to fix that. Sups… Damn." He looked over at Chase. "I think I'm stoned."

"You're way beyond stoned," Chase said. He glanced at the doors and then stood abruptly, hauling Wilson upright at the same time. "Look, don't say anything stupid, okay? In fact, you should probably just not talk until this wears off."

"Stupid doesn't wear off," Wilson pointed out matter-of-factly. He trailed Chase out the doors and down the sidewalk, handfuls of the button down crumpled in his hands. When they approached the end of the walk, he noticed his Volvo idling at the curb. "Hey, that's _my_ car!"

"House is driving you home, remember?" Chase opened the passenger side door and Wilson pretty much fell into the seat, limbs akimbo. "Here we go." Chase shoved his legs in and helped him get his seat belt on. Then he looked past Wilson and grinned maliciously at House. "So. I hear you give great head."

House's face ran a gamut of irritated, incredulous emotions, then he glared at his passenger.

Wilson gave him a lazy smile. "I smell like you. See?" He held up the shirt tail for House to sniff.

House muttered, "Oh my god," and put the car in drive. "Shut the damn door."

"No, you do," Wilson averred. "You really, really do. And when you stick your tongue – "

"Okay, I'm like the grand master of blow jobs," House cut in. "Chase, get lost."

Chase withdrew, stifling a laugh, and slammed the door.

"Hey, House?"

"Yeah, Wilson." They pulled away from the curb and headed toward the street.

He tried not to look pitiful, but he didn't think it worked. "Are you still mad at me?"

House sighed heavily and turned onto the main street. "No, I'm not mad at you. You're just a moron. Or a persona. I haven't figured out which yet."

Wilson tried to sort that out in his head, but it didn't quite work. With a sigh, he concluded, "You're mad at me." He slumped in the seat and ended up leaning to the left, past the center consol until his head rested on House's shoulder. "'m sleepy. Can I sleep here?"

House grumbled, "Whatever," and continued driving.

Wilson blinked up, examining House from a brand new angle. "You're taller. Quit getting taller or I won't be able to reach you." He turned his head in and discovered stubble against his lips from House's unshaven chin. "Mm…you smell like you too."

House tilted his head away and tried to shrug Wilson off. "I'm driving, Wilson."

"So? Since when's crap like that stop you?" Wilson kept mouthing at House's neck, then claimed victory when House sighed and let him.

"Aren't I supposed to be mad at you?"

"You think I'm cute when I'm dopey." Wilson purred into House's skin and cast a sidelong look out the window. They were stopped at a light so he rested a hand on House's leg.

House jumped and grabbed his wrist. "Hey, hands off."

Crap. Wrong leg. Wilson tugged his hand free and reached over to House's left leg instead.

"Wilson." House snatched that hand as well and tried to put it back on Wilson's side of the car. "Seriously. It's hard enough driving this stupid car without you groping me."

Wilson lifted his head enough to peer down at the pedals; House was driving left-footed, his right tucked back against the seat and as much out of the way as possible. Wilson directed a groggy stare at House's right cheek. "But I hurt your feelings."

House looked at him askance, then faced the windshield as soon as the light changed. "Don't be a moron."

Wilson slumped back in his seat and made faces at the ceiling. "I need new felt. It's peeling." He picked at a fray near the rear view mirror, then pulled his hand back to look at his nails. They kept going out of focus and he eventually gave up. Then a thought made him all perky again. "Hey! Do you still want to have sex? I can do that. It always makes you happy again."

House rolled his eyes as Wilson reached for him again, then blocked his hands while somehow staying in his own lane. "Know what would make me happy right now? If you fondled yourself for a change."

A grin stole over Wilson's face. He could do that, especially if it made House happy, so he chirped, "Okay."

"Okay?" House glanced at him, then gaped because Wilson was already moving his seat belt out of the way and sliding down in his seat. "Uh…hm."

Wilson threw him a cheeky grin, his eyelids drooping. God, the whole car was just so…dreamy. "Like this?" He palmed himself and attempted to look sultry. He may or may not have pulled it off, but either way, House's attention was evenly divided between him and the road. "Yeah. Like this." Wilson tipped his head back to rest on the seat and arched a little into his hand. Then his eyes flew open and he stared at his crotch in horror. "Oh my god." He could feel the panic set in, full force. "House, it's not working."

House snorted and turned his head away to hide a snicker.

"House!" Wilson grabbed his arm and dragged it off the steering wheel. Luckily, House had a second hand with which to drive. Wilson practically sobbed, "It's not working!" He shoved House's hand between his legs so that he could feel for himself. "Oh my god, what if I have cancer?"

House lost the battle to remain stoic and let out a helpless laugh.

Wilson glared daggers at him. "It's not funny! I'm gonna die!" Then he realized what he'd just said. "Oh no – I'm gonna die." He stared to his left and moaned, "House."

"Relax," House said. His irritation was mere show; he was still smiling. "I'll fix it when we get home."

"You'll fix it? You can do that?" Wilson threw his crotch a breathless look, still holding House's hand over it. Then he blinked at House, desperate. "Promise?"

House licked his lips to try to cover another smile. "Yeah, Wilson. Promise."

Wilson sighed in abject relief. "Okay."

"Can I have my hand back?"

Wilson shook his head and bit his lip because he could feel the fear hovering nearby.

"Ooookay."

They drove the rest of the way like that. Wilson didn't find anything odd about it but House kept looking at him like he'd lost his marbles. Well, his metaphorical ones anyway. His _marbles_ weren't lost, just…inoperative. Wilson muffled a sigh in the crook of his arm, which smelled like House. House gave a reflexive squeeze, the way a normal person might when holding someone's hand in comfort. Wilson looked down, then wriggled about until House's fingers were better positioned. It was a no-go and he gave up, facing the window, holding House's arm with both hands to keep it in place. Did this count as snuggling? Probably not, but at least they were touching. That was something, anyway. God, he was so out of it.

When they got to 221B, Wilson had to relinquish House's hand, but he fought it until House assured him that he could have it back once they got inside. He hurried after House, stumbling through slush to get to the front door, and cursed as he tripped on his own feet on the way inside. House left the inner door open for him and Wilson carefully maneuvered through it. He glanced around the apartment to figure out where House had gone, then decided to close the door. It was cold outside.

"House?" Wilson padded through the apartment on unreliable legs, practically floating except for the part where walls got in his way. He made it to the bedroom as House was pulling down the blankets, and grinned.

House gestured at the bed. "Come on, Casanova. Sleepy time." He stumped around to Wilson's side and nudged him toward the bed with his cane. "Or perhaps Marquis de Saad would be a more fitting moniker right now, seeing as how you can't get it up."

Wilson blinked at him a few times, unable to work that out in his head, then knocked the cane out of the way so that he could go for House's belt.

"Um." House tried to get a hold of Wilson's hands but Wilson was slippery. Like an eel. He giggled at the mental picture. "Wilson, come on. You're too messed up."

Wilson pouted at him and went still for a second. "But you said you'd fix it."

"After you sleep it off. Come on." House steered him backwards until he hit the mattress and sat down. "Shoes."

Wilson leaned forward and peered at his loafers. "Yeah. Got shoes." He gave House a quizzical look.

House rolled his eyes. "Take them off, idiot."

"Oh." Wilson toed at the heel of his right shoe with his left foot but it wouldn't come off. He stared at his feet, morose. "My shoes don't even work." His gaze wandered to his arm and he squinched his eyes up before shrugging House's shirt off and flinging it to one side. Then he noticed his own shirt and scowled at it as he struggled to get that one off too.

"You're pathetic." House smacked his hands out of the way and started working at buttons, which put House's belt back within easy reach.

Wilson grappled with it but the mechanics of the buckle eluded him. He tucked his chin to look at his own belt, got that off without much trouble, and dropped it to the floor as House got his last shirt button undone. Wilson reached up for House's collar and dragged his mouth within reach.

House ducked to one side and shoved Wilson's shirt off his shoulders. "Come on. Bed."

"I'm trying," Wilson replied, craning his neck to get at House's lips. House moved away again and Wilson made an exasperated sound. "I'm horny," he complained.

House chuckled at that. "Yeah. Too bad you won't be able to do anything with that."

Wilson glared at him for a second, puzzling it out, then chose to ignore the comment. He let House pull the shirt cuffs over his hands, then grabbed him while he was unsuspecting and yanked him off balance.

House flopped onto the bed with a startled oomph and made to sit up, but Wilson was already on him like white on rice. "Wilson – "

Wilson cut off the protest by finally capturing his lips and House mrmph'd into his mouth before he kissed back. Aggression seemed in order; Wilson wanted this, and House liked it when he got rough, so he bit at House's lip before sliding his mouth down to suckle and graze his teeth over House's throat.

"Uh…you're not really in a good frame of mind right now."

"Shut up, House." Wilson kept his tongue busy on patches of stubble and House shuddered. "And get up here."

House obliged, but Wilson suspected that it was just easier to pretend that he had given in. "Seriously," House said. "You're stoned."

"You gonna make me beg?" Wilson asked. He managed to clumsy his way between House's legs and immediately rubbed a hand over House's crotch.

House gasped and pressed his hips into the touch. "No, not really." He sounded strained already.

Wilson grinned and mouthed around the collar of House's shirt. "Didn't think so." He squeezed too hard at the growing bulge between House's legs and drank in the startled grunt that this engendered, along with the full-body flinch. He didn't worry about the latter; he could feel House harden quite a bit more. It made Wilson giggle. No, wait, he emphatically did not giggle. No, no, no. "No giggling," he mumbled with his mouth against House's skin. He sank down a bit and moved his hand from House's groin so that he could balance himself better. It didn't really work so he just laid down on top of House.

"Wilson?"

"God, I'm tired." Wilson slid a bit to the right and felt the mattress pressing firmly against his side. He kept sort of licking at House's neck, though. That's what he was here for. He let out a long, contented sigh. "Mmm…you taste like soap."

House snorted and gently worked himself out from under Wilson. "You're a real beast, aren't you."

"Hmph – yeah," Wilson agreed, chuckling into the bed clothes. He couldn't manage to keep his eyes open but he could almost see parts of House through the miniscule slits between his eyelids. Or maybe he imagined it, because House was smiling at him in that special secret way, like on the webcam video. Wilson grinned like a dope with his face half mashed into the sheets.

He felt House removing his shoes and then a blanket settled over him. It was warm and cozy and Wilson shoved his face into the nearest pillow. House's pillow. A few seconds later, the lights dimmed and House limped from the room. Wilson struggled to lift his head and call him back but he could barely move. Exhaustion and an accidental dose of Vicodin conspired to drag him down and he let them. Couldn't fight it anyway.

--TBC


	18. Chapter 18

**a/n - thanks to everyone who has been reviewing - I read them all, and I really appreciate it! I tried responding to most of them but for some reason, not all of them have that little respond button. I dunno if that's normal, but, eh. In any case, THANK YOU!!**

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It felt like he drifted for days, but when Wilson cast a muzzy look at the alarm clock, it said seven something. Hardly three hours had passed. Wilson dragged himself out of bed and stared at the wall while he willed spots and flashes of light to clear from his field of vision, then he made his way out of the room on ginger feet. It was empty. "Huh." House left him alone in the apartment while Wilson was still high and stupid. That was…great. Just great.

Wilson shook his head, dislodging the last vestiges of sleep and accidental ingestion of opiates. He still felt waterlogged, his movements a bit mushy, but at least his migraine was gone. It was only after his second circuit of the apartment that he realized he was absently following House's walking path around the furniture. Just to avoid the need to think about that, Wilson slogged to the couch and plopped down. The leather cushions hissed as his weight settled and he sighed. He should have expected nothing better; House didn't do the caretaker routine. Wilson should be thankful that he stuck around as long as he did to make sure that Wilson didn't start ironing the creases out of a box of Kleenex.

He blinked as snippets of conversations about shoulders and wrinkles came back to him. And worse. "Oh, please tell me I didn't talk to Chase about blow jobs." He glanced at the blank television and swore to himself, then climbed back to his feet. This place was a mess. Again. How could House, a guy with mobility issues, live in an obstacle course without breaking his neck?

It was in the course of cleaning the kitchen that Wilson found House's note. _Kiddies called. Be back later._ House had left it stuck to the unopened bottle of metaclopramide, which he had arranged on the counter along with the button down that Wilson had gotten off of him at the hospital. Next to that sat an iron. Wilson smirked to discover that House owned an iron; knowing him, he used it to put wrinkles _into_ his clothes. That rumpled look was an art form unto itself.

The phone startled him in the midst of scrubbing the oven and Wilson pulled his head free long enough to fumble on the counter for the cordless. He assumed that House was calling to check up on him, so he opened with, "You spent one unsupervised hour in this place, and already, it's a pigsty."

Silence greeted that, and then, "_…James?_"

Wilson started. "Uh. Stacy?"

"_What are you doing at House's apartment?_"

He looked at the brillo pad in his rubber-gloved hand and replied, "Cleaning."

Stacy made a wry sound on the other end. "_I gathered that. I meant, why are you there, alone, cleaning up after him? Doesn't he have a girlfriend to take care of him now?_"

Shit. "Sort of. It's a long story. Look, uh, House is at the office. What did you need?"

"_His patient files. Did he tell you he got roped into writing a book?_"

"For Harvard Med. Yeah, he mentioned it." Wilson went back to absently scrubbing spots of grease from the drip pan. "You're involved in that?"

"_Harvard Med is my client. I'm supposed to make sure that House doesn't violate doctor-patient privilege in any of his examples._" She sighed, put upon. "_I don't suppose he's actually working on it, is he? He was supposed to send me copies of his files over a month ago, and now he's avoiding my calls._"

"Gee, that doesn't sound like House at all. Putting off work, annoying you…" Wilson scrutinized the inside of the oven and then groped behind himself for the flashlight. Not enough light reached inside for him to be sure that he'd reached all the grime. "I'll nag him about it as soon as he gets home."

Stacy didn't say anything for a few loaded seconds, which gave Wilson time enough to realize his slip. "_There's no girlfriend, is there. He lied._"

Wilson shut his eyes in self recrimination, but wasted no time coming up with a smart ass retort. "Gee, that doesn't sound like him either. Lying? House wouldn't do that."

"_Are you living there again?_" The perfect lawyer, Stacy was. She managed to conceal her nosiness behind a thin façade of friendly concern. "_I thought you had an apartment._"

Wilson stopped his brain for a beat. He was getting to be as cynical as House. Stacy was Wilson's friend, more or less; she had every reason to care about his well being. He sighed and sat back on his haunches, the oven momentarily forgotten. "It's complicated."

Silence jittered over the open phone line, and then Stacy exclaimed, "_It really _is_ you? I thought he was joking!_"

"Wait. He told you?"

"_Oh…god, we slept together._"

Wilson dropped the brillo pad and tried desperately not to let his stomach hit the floor too. His voice weak, Wilson squeaked, "He…he cheated?" Turnabout may have been fair play, but…no. No, House wouldn't cheat on him. Would he?

"_God, James, I'm so sorry. I swear, I didn't think he was serious. I thought…_" She gave a dejected sigh and Wilson thought he heard her plunk down on a piece of furniture. "_I should've known he was just stringing me along. Playing his games…God, what an ass._"

"When…" Wilson could feel his heart trying to lurch its way from his throat. This couldn't be happening. They were doing okay. Not great, but okay. "When did…?"

"_It was only once, James, I swear. Mark and I were having problems, it was right after the hearing when we got snowed in… I didn't mean for it to happen. And if I'd known, I _never_ would have – _"

Wilson's lungs froze for a second. "Wait, you mean like three years ago?" He released a pent up breath and gave a feeble laugh. "No, we weren't together back then. It's only been about six months." Then he paused. "Hang on. He told you we were together three years ago?"

Stacy didn't answer right away. "_Something tells me I can only make this worse._" She took a preparatory breath. "_We were in the clinic, I was mad at him, I said something, he deflected… He told me he was gay and pretty much infatuated with you and sneakers._"

Wilson took a moment to digest this. House had wanted him for three years without saying a word about it, aside from their usual suggestive banter? "Seriously?" Then his brow furrowed. "Wait. Sneakers?"

The shrug communicated itself in Stacy's _hmph_. "_We _are_ talking about Greg here._" As if that explained it.

"Yeah." He scanned the open oven for clues on how to interpret all of that. After a few seconds, he sighed and admitted, "I don't know what to say."

"_Well…You know him as well as I do. Do you think it will last?_"

Wilson found himself staring at his fingers, weighed down by the question. He _wanted_ it to last, but that didn't mean much in the real world. "I honestly don't know. Things have been a little...weird lately." He had never actually said that he blamed Stacy in part for House's trust issues, but he wanted to say it now. He wanted desperately to tell her that thanks to the crap she pulled with the debridement surgery, House was too afraid of betrayal to let anyone else near. But that wouldn't solve anything, and he knew now that House's issues stemmed from much further back. Besides, he just wanted an object for his frustration on that subject; Stacy couldn't shoulder that for him.

Stacy remained quiet while Wilson's thoughts ran afield, and then she offered softly, "_I hope it works out. I don't want him to be miserable, I just…I couldn't take him anymore._"

Wilson nodded even though she couldn't see it. "Yeah, I know. I hope it works out too." He cast a self conscious look around the kitchen, convinced that House could somehow hear them talking. He wouldn't put it past him to have bugged the apartment, courtesy of Lucas the P.I.. "Look, I should go. I'll, um. I'll remind him about the files."

"_Thanks, James. And look, I'm sorry for upsetting you._" She made a rueful sound. "_I'm happy for you. I think._"

Wilson gave a dry laugh. "Thanks. I think. Take care."

"_You too._"

The line clicked and went dead. Wilson stared at the phone in his hand for a little while, then slipped it back onto the counter. He honestly had no idea what to make of that conversation, except that he felt drained after the shock of thinking that House had cheated on him. He didn't like the feeling. It wasn't jealousy or hurt, not as far as he could tell. Panic came pretty close to describing it, though he wasn't quite sure why he would react like that. Mortal fear would probably be more apt. Yes, he decided. Mortal fear. Because the idea of losing House had very nearly crushed him. Oddly enough, the thought of being devastated by that was more terrifying than the idea itself. He knew that he had trouble losing people, to adjusting when someone close to him left his life. But how could he be so invested in another person that losing them might actually spell his end? He thought about House maybe leaving him or - God forbid - dying, and it made him long for the morphine stash on the bookshelf. How could he cope with that sort of need? Wilson was supposed to be the giver, the fulfiller. He wasn't supposed to be the needy one.

It was too much to think about right now, and he had cleaning supplies scattered all about the apartment. Best to focus on that for the time being. He resolutely went back to scouring the oven, though he suspected that there was no grime left and he was industriously scrubbing off the no-stick finish in his zeal to occupy his mind with manual labor. Oh well; he could always buy House a new oven. The timer on this one was broken anyway, and he swore it heated unevenly.

While stripping the bed, Wilson once again managed to trip his way over the big black gift box. It tipped over as he stumbled, his arms full of sheets and blankets, spewing dirty toys all over the floor. Wilson caught himself with a bedpost to the ribs and glared at the mess he had made on the floor. On his way out to put the bedding in the laundry, he treated the box to a nice kick, which merely resulted in him stubbing his toe, which pissed him off even more. He grumbled the whole way there and back, and then stooped to shovel the various bedroom accoutrement back into the box.

After fishing a few wayward objects out from under the bed, Wilson picked the box up and set it on the edge of the mattress, wondering where he could put all of this. He plucked out something with wires and such that looked, frankly, like a five-inch spire of turd molded by an intrepid toddler. Apparently, it was supposed to be a vibrating butt plug. It didn't look like it would be painful, but it sure as hell didn't look pleasant either. Wilson wondered, though. How could he not?

He crept to the bedroom window to see if House's car was still absent. As if that made a difference; he was the one who had paid for all this stuff. He figured he would be safe for a few more hours and shrugged. After detouring to the hallway for a fresh set of sheets and a towel, Wilson remade the bed and laid the towel out on top of it, then took off his khakis and boxers and laid down. He held the toy up in front of him to untangle the wires that led to the controller before he opened a bottle of lube. He coated the toy and set it aside, made sure there were batteries in it (bless House's horny foresight), and slicked up his fingers last.

Apparently, his penis was more enthusiastic about this idea than Wilson himself; it plumped nicely in his hand the second he stroked it. Soft waves of pleasure goaded him that last little bit and Wilson planted his feet on the mattress, heels nearly touching his buttocks. His back cricked as he curled forward to prepare himself. He'd never actually done this alone before; the angle hurt his wrist, not to mention his lumbar group, so he left off sooner than he would have if he were going to have actual sex. The butt plug wasn't all that bulky.

He wiggled around a bit to get comfortable, grabbed the toy, turned it over a few times until he decided that it didn't have an upside-down, and then eased it in. The plug went in slick and smooth so that he barely felt it, aside from the pressure of being filled. Then he eased onto his back and made doubly sure that the thing was on its lowest setting before he hit the power button on the controller.

"Ohhhh…" Wilson laid back and hissed with his eyes shut, his breath off kilter. He reached for his cock and found that it had hardened considerably. "Okay." He licked his lips and gave himself a number of long, hard pulls. "Mmmph." When he thumbed up the setting on the plug, his back arched before he registered the delicious vibrations snaking all throughout his groin. "Nnngh_hhaa_ – oh sweet fuck."

"I'll say."

Wilson jumped about a foot off the bed and nearly slid off the edge before he realized that House was standing in the doorway.

"Don't mind me." House tilted his cell phone a bit and peered at the screen with his tongue stuck in the corner of his mouth. "Just…pretend I'm not here. I have another sixteen available minutes of video space on this thing."

"I…_oh_, goddam…you're not – " Wilson's fingers couldn't manage to decipher the controls on the plug so he just dropped it, grabbed a pillow, and stuffed it between his legs to block House's view. Of course, the toy was still doing awesome things to his prostate, but at least those awesome things wouldn't show on the cell phone video. He also tried not to be obvious about grinding the pillow down on his cock.

House dropped his arm and groused, "You ruined the view!"

Wilson started to yell, but his sharp inhalation shifted everything in his torso, and then he clenched on accident, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut, gasping loudly.

"Damn," House muttered. Wilson heard him limp a few steps closer, then stop again. He must have leaned his cane against something, but it slid off balance and clattered to the floor. "Move the pillow."

"What?" Wilson glanced up through hazy eyes, biting his lip as a whine threatened to pop out. He was facing House, scooted almost to the edge of the mattress from scrambling to reach a pillow. Somewhere in his nether regions, warmth trickled through his nervous system to pool at the base of his penis and shoot into his lower back, sending tingles all throughout his limbs. Some part of him registered the realization that he was basically giving himself a prostate massage with a battery operated contraption, and all he could imagine was a full body orgasm. At that thought, he gulped back a whimper and ended up almost blowing snot from his nose, owing to his lips being clamped shut.

"Pillow. Move. Now." House unbuckled his belt and took another uneven step toward him. "I was planning on still being really pissed when I got back here, but I changed my mind."

Wilson's brain was pretty much goo at that point. He gave House a stupid look and then his eyes followed the pillow as House snatched it and tossed it aside. "Your pants are still on."

House had merely shoved his jeans and boxers down below all the important parts. From the looks of things, he had thoroughly enjoyed the Wilson Show just now. "Considering the number of pills I chewed on the way home, I don't wanna waste a perfectly good hard-on trying to wiggle out of pants without wrenching my leg." He poked and prodded Wilson's middle until he got the hint and slid back on the bed. On the way, House grabbed Wilson's foot and slid his sock off with a wry smirk. "Plaid?"

_Don'tcomedon'tcomedon'tcome…_ "Matches one of my ties."

That one earned him a single raised eyebrow, and then House pulled himself awkwardly onto the bed and crawled between Wilson's legs to kneel canted to the left. Wilson started to turn over but House latched his arms around Wilson's calves and hauled him closer. "Nuh-uh."

Wilson fell back as House tugged him across the bed, static crackling though his hair as the back of his head upbraided the newly washed sheets. He didn't really know what to do, other than focus on the hum inside his body and the slow, torturous crescendo that he could feel building in his loins. House ran his hands up Wilson's legs, to the insides of his thighs and then up around his cock. Wilson shuddered from a combination of his hands and the toy, nearly done in.

"Won't be needing this anymore." House slid the plug out and tossed it aside, ignoring the double thump as it fell off the bed and dragged the wires and the controller with it. "I can milk a prostate too, you know. Isn't it fun, all the stuff they teach us in medical school?" House rubbed his middle and index fingers in the lube that still coated Wilson's rigid penis, then carefully slid them in where the plug had just been.

Wilson's eyes widened and he inhaled some sort of yelp. "Ah – _oh_, fuck. Oh – god,_ House!_" He fell back hard, his spine curved away from the mattress. House dragged him closer until the backs of Wilson's knees were hooked over House's shoulders. House's free arm clamped Wilson's thighs in place against his chest. "_NNNGH! Hoh!_"

Somewhere in the room, House chuckled and kept lightly running the pads of his fingers on either side of Wilson's prostatic lobes, like milking a butterfly. "Like that?"

Wilson moaned at the top of his lungs in response, then ran out of breath, his chest heaving, hands bunched in the sheets. Every time House's fingers swiped across his prostate, fire shot up Wilson's spine, from his ass to the crown of his head. He couldn't help but writhe in response; it was akin to agony, and _god_, he wanted more of it. On a whim, he crossed his ankles behind House's head and tugged at him.

"Your enthusiasm's impressive." House probably tried for flippant or playful, but it came out rough.

"You…try it…_mmph-gh_…sometime." A helpless shudder quaked through him and he threw his head back with a ragged groan. "Ohholymotherfuckinggoddamn – more, _please_, more…"

"Colorful. A little unimaginative, maybe, but at least you swore twice in the same sentence." House's fingers kept on moving, brushing Wilson's prostate, tickling it, playing Wilson the way he played his piano.

Wilson clamped his teeth over his bottom lip and humped the air; he couldn't stop himself.

"And, that's enough of that." House drew his fingers out and wiped the excess lube on Wilson's undershirt, which he was still wearing.

Wilson lifted his head in outrage. "What?!" He glared as House shuffled forward with care for his bad leg, and Wilson's brows fell between his eyes. His voice reedy and thin from panting, Wilson demanded, "What are you doing?" If House wanted to top, he always rolled Wilson over onto his stomach.

"I think I'm having sex with you, but, eh." House shrugged it off, as in, _Who knows these things for sure?_ Then he pulled Wilson's knees from his shoulders, hooked them in the crooks of his elbows, and leaned forward, pressing Wilson's thighs out and up. "Hm. You're bendier than I thought." House leaned a bit more weight forward across the backs of Wilson's thighs.

"Omph! Call me Gumby."

House's face cracked in a grin. "So that makes me Pokey. Nice innuendo."

"I do my best."

House shimmied a bit closer and Wilson noticed him gauging the distance between their body parts, focused on Wilson's left leg, which dangled over House's elbow in troubling proximity to his bad thigh. After a few seconds of grim contemplation, House dismissed it and focused back on the task at hand. He grinned lewdly while he flattened his palm over the base of Wilson's penis, then rubbed firm circles with the heel of his hand.

"Hmmmmm…" Wilson purred and flexed his torso, purposefully putting himself on display with House bearing down on his legs. Then he canted his hips to press his cock harder into House's palm.

House's expression faded as he watched Wilson bent up like a pretzel beneath his weight, squirming into his touch. His face paused somewhere between inscrutable and puzzled.

Wilson turned serious too, though his body rebelled and tried to divert his attention with a fresh onslaught of blood southward. Dizzy or not, Wilson returned House's gaze and wondered what musings passed behind blue eyes. House stretched his hand toward Wilson's face, but only the backs of a few knuckles made contact, brushing down Wilson's cheek in a feather-light, almost timid caress.

Wilson turned to nuzzle at House's palm, though he maintained eye contact. Not quite hitting casual, Wilson asked, "What's up?"

"Nothing." House turned his hand over to properly cup Wilson's face. "I just…have to know."

"Know what?" The blood thumping in Wilson's ears drowned out everything but this moment, his vision tunneled on House's face, on some unidentifiable sadness etched beneath the skin. Maybe Wilson's perceptions were colored by fondness or just light-headed fuzz, but House looked lost right now, a moment apart, and Wilson couldn't figure out why.

House's head tipped to one side and his cheek twitched as his lips parted just enough for him to wet them, but he didn't answer. The scruff on his face paradoxically served to soften House's complexion, to make him seem younger, more flawed in a soft human way. He drew his thumb down over Wilson's lips, watching the digit as it slid over supple skin, and then he drew back abruptly and averted his gaze. His hands went to Wilson's legs, to keep them bent in position, and when he met Wilson's eyes again, it was like the previous minute had never happened.

Wilson studied House openly but there was nothing left in his face to give him away. House didn't move, though; he sat there with his gaze flickering over random parts of both Wilson and the room in general, the shift toward his left hip the only sign that he was still cognizant of the present, of the ache of kneeling for too long.

"House?"

House shook himself and glanced at Wilson long enough to reveal an accidental glimpse of pale, muted fear. He seemed to wrench himself back from the edge of flight, and then he moved forward without warning, shoving Wilson's thighs back up and pressing him into the mattress. His hands came to rest in the sheets by Wilson's flanks and he rose up on his knees, poised over Wilson's body. It couldn't have been all that comfortable for him, considering his weight dispersal. As if he needed one last second to convince himself, House blinked down at him, breathing more harshly than he should have been, prior to any great exertion. Then his paralysis broke and he dove to capture Wilson's lips.

Wilson made a surprised sound in the back of his throat but he surrendered when House snaked his tongue into his mouth and tilted his head to crush their lips together with a tinge of desperation. With his mouth and tongue still occupied, Wilson felt House nudge his opening and then breach the first ring of muscles. Out of surprise, he tensed, but he latched both hands around the back of House's neck and forced himself to relax again. House slid further inside, moving almost too slowly, until their groins were flush. Wilson had started whimpering at some point, probably when he realized that this wasn't just a fast fuck. House was facing him, being gentle, touching him…he was making love. The bastard was actually making love to him.

"Hahhh…" Wilson broke off and flung his head back in ecstasy, circling his hips to create any sort of friction. He felt the crescendo building already but he had no idea how he could ever hope to stave it off. House loved him. He might never say those words, but he did. That was borderline better than whatever he'd done to Wilson's prostate a minute ago. "House," Wilson gasped. "Come on." He bucked and groaned something that should have been words, then added, "Please; I can't wait."

House's voice grated like month-old cheese in a shredder. "You look different than I thought."

Oh, no – not a conversation, not now. Wilson couldn't control what came out of his mouth mid coitus; House knew that. "Fuck…please, House…just…" He scrambled about until his hands found House's knees, then he tried to pull him closer. "No more talking." Pressure, pressure, god, why did House always have to ponder imponderables while having sex?

"Thought…" House scooted closer, knees sliding on freshly laundered linen, jostling Wilson's insides in jolts and bursts of anticipatory agony. "Thought you'd look like the hookers."

Wilson froze and blinked, his fingers still hooked behind House's knees. He lifted his head, too blissed out to express proper outrage. "What… Did you jus' call me a hooker?" He couldn't even breathe enough to sharpen or raise his voice.

"No, idiot." House shifted again, sending Wilson close to paroxysms. If he didn't stop talking in the next thirty seconds, Wilson was going to retrieve the lovely little battery-operated toy and retire to the bathroom to finish. "Didn't think you liked it."

_Don't bite, don't bite…let him talk himself bored and then he'll get on with it._ "What, the sex?" _Just give up. You're not coming any time soon._

House must have grinned, because he purred like he was about to do something mischievous. Wilson arched in anticipation, relishing the feel of House withdrawing everything but his tip. "Nah. I always knew you were a man whore." He slammed back in, shoving Wilson further up on the bed in the process.

"Fuckfuck_fuck…_Stop talking!" Wilson grabbed tufts of House's hair and yanked him within reach, then plastered his face with kisses and tongue. God, the angle when he thrust was fucking perfect. House pulled out again but stayed back this time, poised on the edge of Wilson, studying the way Wilson squirmed and pawed at him to try to get him to push back in. "House…I swear to god…you sadistic bastard…"

"I thought you were only here cuz you were lonely. Or bored."

Wilson whined in frustration and reached between his legs to grab House's hips instead. House was adamant, though; nothing Wilson did could force him back in. Once he realized this, Wilson flopped back and went limp, covered in perspiration that soaked through the back of his undershirt and plastered his hair to the flushed skin at his temples. He gulped in a few breaths, then snapped, "Fine. Share with the class."

"I figured it would wear off and you'd just…I thought…it would fade."

Wilson blinked salty sweat from his eyes and craned his neck to peer past his own engorged, aching cock at House. "Wait. Is that why you never want to face me?" The video he had taken came back to mind. "You thought the…the fakeness would show on my face if you looked at me?"

House shook his head; he looked way too collected for a guy with his dick stuck partway in another guy's ass. "I never thought it would look fake. You love everyone you sleep with. It's just what you do."

Wilson's chest stuttered as he tried to draw deep breaths in his crunched-up position. "Then…I don't get it. If you thought you'd see lu – um, you know. If you knew it'd be there, why didn't you want to see it?"

House moved his knees to relieve the weight pressing on his bad leg, and Wilson had to fight the fluttering in his eyelids at the small jostle. "I didn't want to see it if it wasn't really mine. I didn't want to wake up one day and have it not be there anymore, and know I killed it."

Before Wilson could sensor himself, he remarked, "You have issues."

To Wilson's never ending relief, House cracked a grin. "My issues keep you interested."

"Your issues make me sad," Wilson corrected. As House's smile faded to something wary and confused, Wilson said, "Your mind keeps me interested." He made air quotes around _mind_.

House tilted his head and treated Wilson to a bemused smirk. "That is such a girl line."

"Hey. A mind is a terrible thing to waste." Wilson gestured pointedly to where their bodies joined. "So, you know. Use it or lose it."

"So when I'm old and feeble and my 'mind' is going, you'll jump ship?"

Wilson shrugged against the bedding. "They have pills for that. Lucky for you, I'm a doctor. Your 'mind' will never want." That was supposed to be funny. It _was_ funny. House looked away, though, and Wilson almost didn't believe it when he felt House pull out. "What? What did I say?"

House lifted his chin, pensive and ill at ease, and then asked a corner of the ceiling, "Do you honestly think I'm only in this because you're a walking twenty-four hour free pharmacy?"

Wilson blinked. "What?" He searched the air between them for answers. "Wait, is this about what I said in my office? House, I was tired. I had a headache." He paused, hoping that House would acknowledge his explanation, and then added, "It was a joke."

"Yeah, I know." House's eyes flickered to Wilson's for a second, but he didn't move his head. "Doesn't mean it wasn't true. I 'joke' about stuff all the time. In fact, I think some people call that sarcasm." He shrugged, feigning indifference.

"House, look at me."

"I'd rather not."

Wilson stared at him. House was still holding Wilson's legs apart, his hands pressing at the backs of Wilson's knees. He wondered if House were symbolically keeping him in an exposed position, as if to gain a subconscious advantage in the conversation. Or to make a point. "House – "

"It's not a big deal if you do." House shifted on the bed and barely managed to hide a wince at the demanding position that he put his leg in. "I just think I have a right to know."

"_Look_ at me."

House let his gaze wander to the side of Wilson's face, but no farther.

Wilson sighed; that would have to do. "I think you're only in this because you like having me around." He paused for effect and let his head fall to one side. "And the sex is okay too."

A hint of a smile tugged at one corner of House's mouth, and he rolled his eyes. "Is everything about sex with you?" That was the House-speak version of, _Yes, I do like having you around_, sappiness ad infinitum.

"Yes, actually, it is. So shut up and make with the sex." _Fluff and smooches, and all is once again right with the world. _

House peered at him from the corner of his eye, amused and, though he would never say so, relieved. "I think I like it when you get bossy."

"Really? Because I thought I told you to shut up."

"Yeah. Turns out I'm not such a great listener." House let Wilson's knees slip back into the crooks of his elbows as he leaned over him again.

Wilson latched a hand behind House's neck and dragged his face down. "I'd put you on time out, but that would be detrimental to my interests at the moment."

"Bossy and selfish." House gave him a brief, chaste kiss, just a gentle peck of dry lips and a brush of stubble. "I can get used to that."

"You can stop trying to woo me with your charming banter. In case you failed to notice, you've already gotten in my pants."

House scrunched his face up. "Fine. If you don't want my charms, then I demand dirty talk."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "In that case… Oh gosh, Gregory. Would you please put your dipstick in my coolant tank?"

House's face froze in pained amusement. "Don't ever do that again."

"Stuff your hot dog in my bun?"

"Seriously?"

"Sail your gondola through my tunnel of love."

"Wilson, I swear to god…"

"I can jerk your beef."

"If you don't shut up, you'll have to jerk your own beef."

Wilson gave him a cheeky grin. "Oh, come on. You know you like it."

House couldn't help smiling back, and Wilson's grin only widened as he caught sight of dimples half-hidden underneath an abundance of graying scruff. "Whatever. Now shut up so I can drive my hot rod down your track." He rose up on his knees and positioned himself again.

Wilson snorted. "My asphalt awaits."

House got as far as holding his own penis to guide it, but Wilson's remark drove him to flop back down on his haunches with a helpless smirk. "How am I supposed to take you seriously when you say shit like that?"

"House." Wilson abandoned their ridiculous verbal spar and fixed him with a smoldering look. "Seriously? Fuck me."

House blinked. "Hey, Wilson?"

"Oh, for – " Wilson flounced back and mashed his hands into his eye sockets. "What now?" He glared at House in unbridled exasperation, too horny to be anything else at this point.

"You're right; I like having you around."

Before Wilson could do anything more than blink at the declaration, House lunged forward and shoved back in. Wilson's eyes bugged at the combination of House filling his ass and the position crushing the air from his lungs, and then he wheezed out some sort of pitiful moan.

"That's attractive." House let Wilson's right leg slip from his arm so that he could better balance himself, but he kept Wilson's left leg bent up and away from his thigh. "Getting too old for this?"

"Shut up, House." Wilson snaked his arms over House's back and pulled until he could reach House's throat with his tongue.

House bared his neck and then treated Wilson to few lazy, protracted thrusts before he ducked his head to capture Wilson's lips. His lower body picked up the pace and he grunted into Wilson's mouth, his tongue moving in sloppy circles around Wilson's teeth. Sharp, needy whimpers snuck out between their lips, more Wilson's than House's. Wilson had to break off in short order to toss his head back, a whispery moan caught in stutters in the back of his throat. He felt House's teeth graze his carotid and looked up long enough to wrap his right leg over House's waist. His left was still caught behind House's arm, but he bent that one over House's shoulders, his toes curling at the delightful angle of House's thrusts.

House repositioned his arms, leaning farther forward on the left. He planted his right hand in the mattress next to Wilson's hip and when he shifted, Wilson saw stars. "Huhh – House, there. _There_…" He canted his pelvis and rubbed the underside of his penis against House's stomach, then croaked something unintelligible before he cried out in earnest. He sounded half strangled.

The sound goaded House to thrust harder, his knees shuffling on the mattress to crawl closer, not that there was any space between them. It was more like he tried to crawl into Wilson, his hips pistoning to a heady tempo, hitting Wilson's prostate just often enough to sustain the fire without tipping him over the edge.

Wilson didn't realize he was babbling encouragements until he heard his own voice in his ears, panting out pitchy words between gasps and moans. "Yeah…harder…_hnnn_…don't stop…" Desperate. He sounded like he'd break if House didn't keep going.

And House just watched him, pupils blown, braced mostly on his hands while he delivered a pounding the likes of which Wilson hadn't even imagined. It couldn't have been just the position; it had to be the implications of it, of House letting him see this. Wilson fought to keep his eyes open, maintain eye contact. Fuck. He wondered what he looked like; House was staring too hard, too intent. Wilson's hands searched for purchase on House's body, groping lousy handholds until he found House's head and fisted his hair. He couldn't keep his eyes open, it was too good. When House started mouthing at his neck, he peeled up heavy lids to peer at the top of his head, surprised when he found blue-ringed eyes still watching him from cornered slits below lids stuck at half mast.

Wilson gasped and clawed House's shoulder blades. He could feel broad muscles moving in House's back, bunching under his hands as he supported his weight and fought to keep thrusting. It became too much and House abruptly slid off his palms. Wilson's leg fell to the mattress but he hooked it over House's back as soon as he could lift it, and House's elbows hit the bedding at Wilson's side. A shaky moan toppled from House's open mouth and he hid his face against Wilson's sternum, still working his abdominal muscles, still driving them both forward at an inexorable pace, Wilson's cock trapped in slick heat between their bellies.

"House." Wait for him, wait. Wilson blinked sweat from his eyes and noted the flush blossoming in the skin at House's neck where it disappeared beneath the collar of his t-shirt. He opened his mouth to call House again, but a well-placed nudge seized his breath. He convulsed, frantic to hold back, his voice like a creaky door in his throat as he groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Too hot in here – it was too hot. His balls had already drawn up, hard marbles close against his skin. His breath hitched but he managed to grunt, "House, up. Look up."

House hopped a bit on the bed, bringing their groins closer, bending Wilson just that tiny bit farther so that he could strike true against his prostate. He whimpered into Wilson's clavicle and tried not to let Wilson drag his face free of the shelter he sought below eye level. House probably hoped to distract Wilson when he circled his hips and then wiggled from side to side as he slammed in, jarring Wilson with such bitter sweet friction that he nearly forgot about House altogether, save for one crucial part of him.

Wilson's body seized and he swore aloud at the agony of hanging back, it was like dying a little to be so close and yet not come. But he wanted House to come first. He wanted to see that, he never got to see that. House always managed to hide his face or look away, bury the expression somewhere out of sight, obscure just enough of Wilson's view to prevent him truly seeing enough of it to know what it looked like when he came. Wilson wrenched at House's ears and cried, "_Look_ at me!"

Perhaps he was just alarmed by the anguish in Wilson's voice, but House looked up. He looked up and he made eye contact, breathless with exertion, pinnacled right at the brink. A thin mewl evaded his attempts at silence and Wilson held his head in place so he had to keep looking, two sets of nebulous pupils staring back at each other. House bit his lip and his nostrils flared with his ragged breathing, and then he gulped over something that sounded like Wilson's name.

Wilson felt House's body convulse over him and House clamped his mouth shut, his head thrown back as he rounded his back and froze, shuddering hard in Wilson's grasp. House blew a startled breath out his nose and then croaked, "Oh fuck," like he was about to shatter. His hips twitched up against Wilson's prostate and then House's hands were gouging their way into Wilson's arms as whatever he tried to voice after that turned into a strangled sob, and there it was. Before he shut his eyes for good, his gaze flickered back to Wilson's, a blaze of blue set against black pits, perfectly clear, flooded.

Wilson's hands slid away as House doubled over, his forehead pressed to Wilson's breastbone, quaking. He resumed thrusting in jagged spurts fueled by instinct more than conscious movement, and it finally spilled Wilson past the point of no return. He muffled his cry in House's hair and shoved himself awkwardly up against House's stomach. It took him a second to realize that House had snuck a hand between them and Wilson eagerly thrust into the sheath provided by House's fingers, riding crushing waves of bliss as they collapsed over him and broke, scattering words and air and half-formed thoughts, ripping him open at the seams, and oh god, House loved him, he could see it, he didn't need the words because he could see it now.

A last spasm burst through Wilson's loins and then he sagged, wrecked, unable to move, hardly breathing past the fullness in his chest. House had softened and withdrawn, but his weight still covered Wilson; he stayed on his knees between Wilson's legs, their limbs hopelessly tangled, panting open-mouthed against the hollow of Wilson's throat, his eyes loosely closed. Wilson strained to see his face at this unnatural angle, then gave up. "God, that was good."

House replied with a grumble or two of indefinite meaning and seemed to grow heavier. Wilson smiled when he noticed House's hands cradling his head in place of a pillow, ticks of his overexerted body causing his fingers to tap Wilson's skull at irregular intervals. Wilson felt like an engine cooling after a long drive, hissing steam and clicking in the wake of carefree abandon. On an impulse, he ran his hands through House's sweat-soaked hair and then tripped fingertips down his back. He couldn't resist cupping House's ass and then skimming his hands over the backs of House's thighs.

House drew in a shaky breath and mumbled, "Quit it with the post-coital molestation."

Wilson snorted. "You first."

House's fingers tightened around strands of Wilson's hair and he lifted his head. A smirk hung around his mouth, but he looked a bit worried. "Whada you know. I fixed you."

Wilson's brows fell in confusion until he recalled his panicked assertion during the stoned car ride home. "You mention that to anyone, and I'll tell them you're a cuddle bug."

"You wouldn't dare. Then everyone would want a piece of me."

Wilson considered that while House struggled to lever himself off. "No. I don't think I'm willing share."

House grinned. "Selfish and bossy." He winced and stopped moving, then made the supremely droll pronouncement, "Ow."

"Now who's the old man?" Wilson jibed, but he tried to help by bracing his hands against House's ribs so that he could lean forward a bit more.

House awkwardly placed his palms and managed to somehow give Wilson enough room to squirm out from under him. Then he collapsed face down on the mattress. Without turning his head, he replied, "Well, according to you, I _am_ the wrinkly one."

Wilson made a face at him. "You're never going to let me forget any of that, are you."

House chuckled, pretended to think about it, and then stated, "No. Not a chance."

"Fine." Wilson rolled onto his side and then manhandled a grumping House until they were spooning. "Oh, by the way. Stacy called."

House's eyes cracked open, though he didn't bother trying to look at Wilson. "What are you doing?"

"Engaging in pillow talk."

House rolled back enough to be able to see Wilson in his periphery. "Since when do we engage in pillow talk?"

"Since you confessed your undying affection for me." Wilson gave him a bored smile.

A pause ensued, and then House craned his neck to see him better. "You got all that from me liking to have you around?"

Wilson shrugged. "I extrapolated." Since House was one comment short of squirming, Wilson started to roll away.

House clasped his wrist and wrenched him back. "What did Stacy want?"

"What are you doing?"

"Engaging in pillow talk. What did Stacy want?"

Wilson indulged in an affectionate smirk. "Patient records for your book. And the name of your new girlfriend."

Was that concern etched into a stray line on House's cheek? "What did you tell her?"

Wilson didn't hesitate to answer; he didn't want to lose the momentum of their conversation. "That we're sleeping together. Can't you just get one of your lackeys to send them to her?"

"You told her we're sleeping together?" House pretended to roll away to his own side of the bed, but what he really did was drag Wilson with him, get more comfortable on his side, and press back. Sneaky bastard. "You know, for some closeted freak, you're letting an awful lot of people know about us."

Wilson eyes rolled without conscious thought. "I'm not ashamed of you."

"No, you're ashamed of _you_."

That gave Wilson pause. When he responded, his voice was low and solemn. "I'm working on that."

A long silence insinuated itself into their personal space, and Wilson thought that was the end of it. Then House asked, "Would it help if I said I loved you?"

Wilson blinked, incredulous, and then struggled up on his elbow so that he could see House's face. There was no expression to read so Wilson said, "Uh…Yeah." It sounded more like a question.

"Too bad. I'm just tolerating you."

Of course. Wilson grimaced in exasperation and settled again, his face a scant few inches from House's scalp. He watched his breathing stir the damp clumps of hair there.

After that, they just laid in stillness, enjoying the afterglow, letting drowsiness steal over them. Wilson knew that House was still awake but they didn't need to say anything until House's voice emerged from the silence, so quiet that Wilson wondered if he hoped not to be audible. "I do, know you. I think – "

"You don't have to say it." Wilson wasn't sure why he felt such an urgent need to cut him off before the actual words slipped out, but he did.

It turned out to be the right choice because House positively melted in relief, cinching Wilson's arm tighter over his midsection. "Good.'Night, Wilson."

Wilson smiled in spite of himself, his nose buried at the nape of House's neck. "'Night, House." He hesitated, then added, "And I tolerate you too."

He could feel House smirking back.

* * *

At first, Wilson thought he was still asleep, blinking at the indentation on the pillow next to him. When he reached out, it was still warm. He could hear the piano at the other end of the apartment, muffled by the closed bedroom door. House was playing that odd, melancholy song that the half-brained patient had finished for him two years ago. The notes sounded like they belonged in a happier piece, but when House strung them all together, they cast a wispy pall over the room.

Wilson groaned as he pulled himself out of bed and paused to examine the mess left behind on the sheets and himself. Great; he'd just changed the bedclothes. With a half-hearted sigh, he dragged his undershirt over his head and used it to clean himself off, then bundled it in with the sheets, which he dropped in a lump on the floor next to the full hamper. There had to be some way to get House to do his own laundry, at least once in a while. Wilson hadn't always done it for him. Though, if he were being honest with himself, he had sort of taken care of it now and then, usually after the piles of sour clothes migrated to the closet.

Yeah, okay. So ever since the infarction, Wilson had pretty much done it for him, with a few exceptions that came in the form of breaks in the friendship, because otherwise, House would just douse the pile in Febreeze and wear everything all over again. Maybe if the hamper had wheels… Honestly, House was the least compliant cripple known to man. He should have bought himself a wheeled hamper years ago. And shower bars. It was a miracle that House hadn't cracked his skull open on the bathtub rim yet. Which reminded him – House needed those no-skid sticker thingies in the tub too. Cynicism and stubborn denial didn't make reliable treads.

After fumbling on some clean pajamas, Wilson padded to the bedroom door and paused to listen. House had stopped playing at some point; he must have heard Wilson moving around. Wilson glanced over his shoulder to check the time: just past midnight. House should be asleep. They should _both_ be asleep after week they'd had. Well, House had always been a bit of an insomniac. Wilson considered slipping a sedative into his bourbon but House would probably taste it. The guy was worse than a toddler refusing to eat spinach even if it was hidden in the meatloaf.

Wilson opened the door and shuffled quietly down the hallway, walking with the utmost care. He was a little sore at the moment; he could only imagine that House felt the strain too. Maybe yoga classes would be a good idea. "Hey."

"How's your head?" House made an uneasy face at the piano keys where his fingers still rested. "Forgot to ask before."

That was sudden. Had House been saving up an opening question ever since he heard Wilson stumbling around? "Fine. Um…thanks."

House merely grunted in response to that and shut the lid over the keys. "Cuddy has her lawyers on it."

"On what?" Wilson took a few steps farther into the room but House radiated his classic keep-away vibes. Wilson wasn't keen on ruffling feathers right now. "What did you do?"

House threw him an exasperated look but he remained hunched on the piano bench in sleep pants and a tee shirt, subdued. "For my patient, moron." He kept on talking, but in the direction of his piano. "She has to get the court to appoint a guardian ad litem."

Wilson frowned and made the unnecessary comment, "So the dad made his decision final."

"The wrong decision," House replied. Then he sighed and rested his elbows on the key cover. Thumbs dug into the divot where his nose met his forehead and he just stayed that way until he heard Wilson approaching him from behind. "And the mom can't even be bothered to visit the hospital. Nobody can reach her."

"Poor kid." Wilson sighed, then offered, "You didn't have to stop playing."

"I don't do audiences." House sounded weary, but that only betrayed too many sleepless nights.

Wilson let a smile ghost over his face. "Afraid people will find out you're faking?" He rounded the piano to see what music he had out but the sheet stand was empty. "That it's really a cleverly disguised player piano?"

"I lip sync too." House glanced at Wilson's torso over his shoulder. "Concert scandals just aren't my style."

"Come back to bed." Wilson reached to grasp House's shoulder.

House dropped it and shied forward. "Don't."

"Okay." Wilson withdrew, mashing the hurt back into a little ball somewhere sheltered, his hands held up and away. He retreated to the stuffed ottoman and sank down, still in House's periphery. "You're…freaking out? About the…" He flipped some sort of gesture in the direction of the bedroom; House's eyes tracked it. "You have a problem with intimacy."

"Thanks, Doctor Phil. I never suspected." House glared at him from the corner of his eye and then shuffled his fingers at imaginary sheet music on the piano in front of him.

Wilson blinked. "You're admitting it?"

"In the vain hope that lack of an argument will make you go away faster."

Wilson pursed his lips and shot the kitchen an irritated look, clasping his hands between his knees to keep them from fiddling with the back of his neck. His next words came out slow, cautious. "Why do you feel threatened by this? By…" He rolled his hand in the air, hoping that maybe House would break in, but he didn't. "By having a vested interest in another human being?"

House glanced down with a grimace stretched thin across his face, then looked at Wilson, annoyed. "Why do you have to dissect everything?"

"Because it hurts me." Wilson started when he realized what he had just said, but he let it stand because it was true. More softly, he clarified, "It hurts when you try to reject the fact that this means something. To both of us." His leg was bouncing to betray his discomfort and he stilled it with an effort.

House merely watched him for a moment, implacable, and then looked at his piano.

"What are you afraid of?" Wilson peered at him from under his bangs; he needed a hair cut.

Without hesitation, House replied, "You." He made the word sound like a curse.

Wilson licked his lips, then swallowed with difficulty as his eyes wandered off into the farthest reaches of nothing. When he looked back, he caught House in the act of averting his gaze. "I'm not gonna leave."

"Everybody leaves."

Wilson's voice rose and sharpened of its own accord. "I came back."

"See?" House's eyes flickered toward him, then away again. "Can't come back if you didn't already leave."

"Okay." Wilson contemplated his interlaced fingers. Hard. "I know I have issues, House. Nowhere near on a par with you, maybe, but – "

"You're worse than me," House asserted with surprising degree of venom. "You attack just as easily as I do, you just make it look like an outstretched hand."

Wilson drew his hand back, literally. He hadn't realized he was holding it out. "You're deflecting. You're trying to run away because this scares you – "

"Yeah," House snapped, his voice loud and angry. "I'm scared. I should be. You're nothing but smoke and mirrors – even your persona has a persona. You think I'm deflecting? At least I know it. You, on the other hand, you don't even know you're doing it. You blame it on me, you make it sound like I'm the one hiding so that you don't have to admit that you're a big fat lying bastard."

Wilson fought not to take the bait. He knew House, he had seen him lash out like this a hundred times. They had said and done things tonight that House couldn't handle, things that made him vulnerable, and now he needed distance. And Wilson refused to let him have it. "You're afraid of betrayal," Wilson asserted. He couldn't look at House while he said this, and he knew that it made him seem deceitful, but he could feel the piercing blue gaze stabbing holes in the top of his bowed head. "You're afraid I'm going to take all of this and use it to hurt you. You're afraid that everything that's been going on – " He gestured between them to demonstrate. " – is just a ploy."

House broke in before he could really get on a roll. Typical evasive tactic. "How do I know it's not?"

"You don't," Wilson snapped. He didn't even need to think about that. "You have to trust me, House. You said you trusted me."

"To be you," House shouted. He started to rise from the piano bench but the unaccustomed position they had indulged in a few hours ago had taken its toll on both his legs. He couldn't get up with the aplomb he wanted, and it pissed him off further to fall back onto the bench. "I trust you to be just as much of a self-deceiving hypocrite as you always are."

Wilson watched him fume and mentally kicked himself for escalating. Once he could speak with sufficient calm, Wilson asked, "What's this really about?"

House knew that he had been caught out, but he wouldn't give up. "Oh, stop trying to change the subject. This is about you."

"No," Wilson said. "It's not." The ensuing silence confirmed that much, at least. "So talk to me. Tell me what's bothering you."

House looked at everything in the room except him, his cane thumping irritation into the floor between his bare feet.

"House – "

"I don't want to do this anymore." There. Just like that. No frills, no explanations. Just that.

Wilson turned and ducked his head, peering sidelong at House's hunched profile. "This, the conversation, this? Or…"

"Both." House appeared ill, sitting there on his bench in a shadow.

Mindful of the delicate spot they were in at the moment, Wilson said, "We've put off talking about this for months, House. It has to happen sometime."

"No it doesn't." House started to place his feet and cane again, but he stopped. He knew he couldn't storm out right now. Instead, he lifted his chin and told the bare air, "Go home, Wilson."

Wilson stared at him, unwavering as a stone wall. "I am home."

They each sat there in a silent standoff, Wilson glaring and House avoiding his eyes. Then House appeared to steel himself. "This time, I _am _dumping you. Get out."

Wilson's breath caught over the rapid flutter in his chest, but he hid it. "No. I won't let you do this to yourself."

"You can't stop me," House averred. He looked at Wilson with his head tilted to one side, studying him the way he studied his white board when it didn't say what he wanted it to. "Go home."

"I already told you, _this_ is my home." Shit, his voice was quavering. He continued anyway, and he held House's gaze even though his eyes burned. "My _House_, my home."

"Oh, give it up! Your canned relationship lines don't work on me. We both knew this was never gonna last."

"We _don't_ know that! You're refusing to even try."

House opened his mouth, but he wasn't quick enough thinking up a comeback. He ended up shaking his head, eyes dropping to his knuckles where they rested on the head of his cane. "You don't want _me_," House barked, a little belated. "You want a project. You want somebody you can fix."

"Oh, so now I'm Cameron?" Wilson scoffed. "That's rich. I suppose maybe we have the same chest size, but – "

"Why did you prescribe for me?"

Wilson stuttered to a halt. "Uh. What?"

"Almost eight years, you wrote every script I asked for, except for the ketamine thing and Tritter. You _knew_ it was too much, and yet you never said no. Why?"

Wilson ducked his chin a few times, expecting to have a retort every time he lifted his head again, but he eventually just shook his head. "Oh…kay. I'm lost."

House smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant look; it was predatory. House intended to eat Wilson alive, and not in the good way. "You need me to need you. Doesn't matter how."

"Not for pills," Wilson replied. Anger colored his words, but not much; there was more shock and disappointment than anything else. "That's not what I want, House. I don't want to – to bind you to me with drugs."

"You already did." House's voice came out thick. Small. "You nagged me all the time, but you kept enabling. For years. You don't want me off the Vicodin. You want me dependant on it, so that I'll be dependant on you. It's perfect, from your point of view. You can keep on pretending to be self-righteous, I'll never get better, and you don't have to worry that once you fix me, the magic will disappear."

Wilson's lips worked for a second and he glanced aside as if his response were lurking on the floor next to his shoes. That…hurt. So much, it simply hurt to hear House say something convoluted like that, more so because Wilson knew that in House's mind, it made perfect sense. And then something clicked, which was scary considering that he could now get into House's head with such ease. "Is that why you went to Ngyen? You were testing me? To see if I'd stay even if you didn't need me to prescribe for you?" A mirthless laugh fell from his mouth. "House, that's…" His head bobbled, shaking out possible ends to that sentence, but none really fit the mood so he just stopped talking. There were too many subject changes in too short a time; Wilson wasn't sure what House was trying to get at. Then he started and directed a hateful glare at House. "Wait, you're blaming your Vicodin habit on me?" He was nearly shouting; the neighbors could probably hear. "You're saying that you only conned extra scripts out of me so that I'd feel wanted? I applauded you the other day for showing restraint! Now you're just making up excuses to throw me out of your life."

This time, House went ahead and clawed his way to his feet, one hand clenched around his cane and the other curled over the lip of the piano lid.

"Oh, no. No! You do _not_ get to walk out on this conversation!" Wilson shot to his feet too, intent on blocking his escape.

Maybe he moved too fast or spoke too loudly, but House drew back against the wall between his guitars as Wilson crossed the room, one hand raised in an instinctive bid to ward him off. "Wilson – "

Wilson stopped outside of arm's reach, cognizant of the way House's raised hand shivered. "I'm not afraid of you, House. I _know _you. You can throw all the barbs you want, but I don't buy it!"

"Back off." House shifted where he stood, his expression wary as he took in Wilson's stance. But his voice was low and he appeared seriously disconcerted by Wilson's proximity. "Just…Wilson, you're shaking. Just back off."

"_I'm _shaking." Wilson made an incredulous sound, but when he looked down, he could see himself trembling where he stood. In his periphery, House's hand wavered in mid air, still poised to deflect him. Wilson took a step back, into the piano, and tried to control his breathing. He covered his face for a second, mashing it into his palms, and then dropped his hands to look at House, defensive posture and all. Since it served to answer both concerns – the overt physical threat as well as the emotional one – Wilson said, "I'm not going to hurt you, House. Not on purpose. You _know_ that."

House's breathing was a bit shallow too. "Do I? You've said things to me before just to hurt me. You sawed through my cane just to get back at me for a couple of stupid pranks. Those were on purpose."

Space seemed prudent right now so Wilson side-stepped the piano and backed off some more. House finally dropped his hand. "Don't throw this away, House. You'll regret it." Dammit, that sounded like a threat, and Wilson turned to one side, his hand pulling at his neck. "I don't – I didn't mean – That came out wrong." He pushed at the air with his palm. "Just don't…" He sucked in a frustrated breath and then muttered, "Fuck."

"I know what you meant," House said. He shuffled out from behind the piano, watching Wilson to make sure he didn't move.

Wilson tracked his progress across the room and waited until he had lowered himself gingerly to the sofa. "Why are you doing this? I want an answer – a _real_ answer. Not your evasions and – and this crap." He waved a hand around in front of himself to signify the argument up to this point. "Just give me an honest reason, and I'll go."

But House didn't have an actual explanation, and he probably hadn't counted on Wilson calling him on it. Up until now, this random-attack approach had always served to drive people off eventually, Wilson included.

Wilson grimaced, his face pulling frown lines across his jaw, and then he plodded heavily to the other side of the couch. House didn't look at him as he sat, weary in too many ways to count. "You can't keep running, House."

"Obviously." He snorted at his maimed leg but it was a weak joke.

Wilson ignored him. "You'll end up alone."

House lifted his head just a fraction and peered at Wilson from the corner of his eye, one brow raised. "I know."

"And you want that?" Wilson demanded. He would never be able to express the level of relief that came with seeing House shake his head in response. It was a halting move, reluctant, but an answer nonetheless. Encouraged, Wilson scooted closer, within arm's reach, but he didn't touch. "Then let me in. For good. Don't just keep showing me all these little glimpses and then yanking them away the first chance you get. It's cruel." He hesitated, and then added, "I watched the video we made. I saw the way you look at me, the…" He ran a gentle hand through the air between them. "…the touches. Do you think that's one-sided?" At House's negative response, Wilson slid another few inches closer, unfazed by House drawing back. "Do you think it makes you weak to feel that way?"

"I think this is a stupid conversation."

"Yeah." Wilson nodded. "I caught that. It doesn't mean I'm gonna shut up."

House nodded and mumbled, "Fine." Then he raised his head and looked at Wilson dead on. "I want out of this relationship because I feel like a worthless piece of crap whenever I'm around you, like I don't measure up and it disappoints you every time it shows. And I get enough of that from – from colleagues, and from…family. I don't need it at home too. And I want you to leave before I hate you for it."

Wilson tried to swallow; it was a no go. Too much air laced his words when he said, "You're not worthless."

House gave him a tolerant smile, sadly vindicated. "But I _am_ a disappointment." He shrugged as he looked away. "Figured."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" Wilson tried again to swallow the lump in his throat, and failed. "You're just trying to protect yourself – I get that, House. I do. But this is not the way to go about it." He took a risk and reached to cover House's hand on his cane. House started to pull away but Wilson wouldn't let him. "Talk to me, House. They're just words." His voice scratchy, Wilson added, "Tell me what you need from me right now to make this better."

House looked up, a baleful tint to his eyes, then he bit his lip for a second. Wilson thought it was over, that House was going to withdraw again, for good this time, but House lunged at him just as Wilson decided to leave after all. A startled sound escaped Wilson's mouth but he didn't have time to make words out of it because House was kissing him, brutally, his tongue swirling about Wilson's, his fingers clenched too hard on either side of Wilson's face. Taken off guard, Wilson merely kissed back; he had no idea what had just happened, except that maybe House had switched tactics again to shut him up.

The next thing Wilson knew, House had shoved him back against the couch cushions and was moving to straddle him. Wilson drew his knee up to block him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Nothing." House leaned on Wilson's knee to force it out of his way but Wilson held his ground. Frustrated, House settled for grabbing at the hem of his sleep pants.

Wilson jumped and grabbed his wrists to pry his fingers off. "House, knock it off."

"Stop." House twisted until Wilson lost his grip and then went back to trying to shove Wilson's leg out of the way.

"You stop." Wilson batted at his hands, but that didn't deter him. "No, I mean it. Stop!"

They grappled for a second and then House flung Wilson's hands away and fell back to his own side of the couch. He heaved in a few breaths and then palmed his forehead, defeated.

Wilson slowly sat up, clueless and worried, watching House the entire time. "House…"

"Don't. I get it. Just don't."

Wilson swung his legs to the floor and peered at House's left knee, unwilling to look at House dead-on. He reached out to touch the bony tip of a shoulder, but House shied and knocked his hand away. Wilson sighed, frustrated and at a loss. "Talk to me."

"You wouldn't understand."

"You don't know that!" Wilson made another move to touch him and ended up wrestling House over possession of his hand. House managed to put his back to Wilson, but Wilson wouldn't relinquish his left hand; he hugged House's fingers to his chest, determined to break them before letting them go. "House, come on. My decoder ring's broken. I need you to explain it to me."

House tugged at his trapped hand, a fruitless and half-hearted effort. After making that token show of resistance, his fingers curled subtly over Wilson's.

If Wilson didn't know House so well by now, he may have mistaken that for an involuntary contracture of muscles at rest. But no; House was more or less holding his hand back. Wilson stared down at their interlaced fingers, and then he gazed at House's back. That vague sadness that House could induce in him with such ease seeped out to encase Wilson's heart. His throat closed up a bit, but he managed to say, "You could have just said that you wanted me to…hold you. You didn't need to trick it out of me with some insane bid for sex."

"Gee, it's like you don't even know me." His snark fell flat and he started to rub absently at his bad leg while Wilson squeezed the fingers of his other hand.

God, that had been the deal in the exam room too. House had just wanted somebody to touch him, to let him know that he wasn't alone, and what had Wilson done? Rejected him and left him there. Alone. Wilson sucked his lips between his teeth, his face pained. "It's not…abnormal to want comfort, House. There's nothing freakish about it – nothing to be ashamed of."

Some part of Wilson blamed himself in part for this situation, though; Wilson wasn't given to casual touching, either, at least not with House. Ironically, the same could have been said about the way he treated Amber. There must have been so many things that House must want from him, but he was incapable of asking. He had never learned how. Intimacy, to him, wasn't an end in itself; it had to be secondary to some other activity. Like sex, Wilson supposed.

Wilson shifted to hold House's fingers more firmly, since that seemed to be the only limb that House was willing to part with right now. "You need reassurance that what happened earlier was a good thing. I understand that." When he got no reaction, he said, "House, look at me."

"No."

"House – "

"No!" House wrenched his hand free, cornered and angry over that fact. "I told you to get out."

"You're not being rational," Wilson pointed out. "You need to calm down for a second and – "

"Stop telling me what I need!" House started to rise, probably to storm from the room, but Wilson grabbed his arm to keep him on the couch.

"Look, we're both exhausted, we're not thinking straight right now." Some sort of struggle ensued and Wilson found himself with a handful of the front of House's tee shirt, House's right wrist in his other hand, dragging him back. "House. House!"

"Leggo!" House twisted his shoulders to squirm free and gained his feet, painfully judging by the look on his face.

Wilson chased after him the second he realized that House was headed for the door. "Wait!"

When Wilson touched his arm again, House rounded on him and shoved him back. Wilson tripped over his own feet and managed to catch himself on the desk, but in the time it took him to straighten, House made it out the door.

Wilson pushed himself off the desk and caught the door before it slammed shut, then dashed out through the lobby on House's heels. He called out a frantic plea for House to stop, but he didn't. As he watched House clamber onto his motorcycle, all Wilson could picture were slippery roads and the ER, and he stopped thinking. The rev of the engine covered the sound of Wilson's bare-footed steps but before House could whiz away, Wilson leapt onto the Repsol behind him and grabbed him about the waist.

House had to brace his feet back on the ground to keep from tipping over and then he tried to rip Wilson's hands off.

"Come back inside."

"Wilson, get the fuck off."

"If you want to run then do it, but I'm not getting off, and I'm not wearing a helmet, and when you wreck, you'll end up killing me, so if that's what you want, then go!"

House seemed to decide that getting him off the back of his bike was a lost cause, so he stopped trying to get Wilson loosen his grip and merely demanded, "Let go of me!"

"No!" The chill bit through his thin shirt, the flimsy flannel sleep pants, bathed his bare feet in ice, but that was nothing compared to the cold that greeted the thought of not having House around anymore to torment him with insane ideas and snark and aggravation… "When Stacy called, she said something, and I thought – I thought you cheated, and I thought – it _sucked_, House. It was – I thought, for just – for a second – House, it made me realize, if something happens – God forbid, if something happened to you, if you – if you died, then – "

House started as Wilson's fractured sentences resolved into something with a point. "Shit, don't do this now."

"You know what I'd do? I'd come back here, to your empty apartment, and you wouldn't be there to mock me for crying over losing a sack of shit like you. And I'd look around, and I'd see the bookshelf, and the _stupid_ fucking metal box on the top shelf – "

House groped at his arms, frantic to get him off. "Stop talking – stop!"

" – I'd take it down, and I'd open it and I'd draw up way more than a therapeutic dose – "

House folded over and tried to get his hands over his ears. "Shut up!"

Wilson refused to stop and somehow managed to keep House's hands out of the way. " – and then all I'd be able to picture is your face, looking at me like I'm an idiot for thinking your life is worth mine – "

"No!" House squirmed to get away from him, loose his hands, anything.

" – and I wouldn't be able to inject it because you'd think I can get over it, that I _should_ get over it, because that's what I always do and you think it's _so damn easy_ for me to be happy – "

"Fuck – Wilson, stop, please…"

" – and I'd put it back, and I'd just keep going because that's what you expect of me, because you think I'm so much better than you, you think I'm a god damn saint for putting up with you all this time – "

House could hardly breathe and he was shaking as much as Wilson by now. "Jimmy…" Just a pitchy hiccup, that word.

" – and I'm so terrified of letting you down that I'll pretend everything's going to be okay when it's _not_ okay, and it'll never be okay, but I'll keep taking stupid pills to convince myself that it is – "

House let out a desperate sound that betrayed he was close to crying too, bent as far forward as he could get while trapped in Wilson's frantic embrace. "Wilson, stop. Just stop," he begged. "I can't do this."

"You think I'm like Stacy, you think I have this better life that you're keeping me from, you think if you're not in the way then I'll find the better place, and then I'll be happy, but there is no better place, and I'm happy _here_ – "

"Why are you doing this to me?!"

Wilson stopped, his breath caught in twelve places in his throat and lungs. "Because I – " _love you. _"I just want – " _you to be happy. _Wilson shook his head and dug his brow into the space between House's shoulder blades, shamelessly allowing saline to trickle down his cheeks because he didn't have the slightest idea how to fix this. "I don't know what to say – no matter what I say, I'm gonna fuck it up."

House shuddered with a suppressed sob and vigorously shook his head, his palms splayed flat on the gas tank of his bike, the engine still vibrating under them, but there was no sound in Wilson's ears. Just the rush and throb of blood in his head and House gasping for a deep breath in his arms.

"Come back inside, House. Please just come back inside."

House's chest stuttered beneath Wilson's hands and he moaned something clearly intended as a refusal.

Wilson sucked in his lip when he took a breath to steady himself. "It's not rational; it's not supposed to be, and that scares you, but I can't – " He broke off because he had no idea how to finish that. Eventually, all he said was, "Stay."

House had started mumbling to himself; Wilson couldn't understand the words but they had to be some sort of denial.

When Wilson adjusted his grip to pull him closer, House didn't resist. Wilson could barely speak, his throat was so raw, but he had to keep talking. "I'm not better off without you."

House jerked in his arms and sobbed, "I want my mom."

That sent fresh tears tumbling past Wilson's lids and he shut his eyes. "Whatever you want. I'll get her on a plane in the morning. Just come in." He felt House lift his head a bit, so he added, "It'll be okay, House. You're okay."

House stiffened unexpectedly. At first, Wilson thought that their awkward position on the bike was putting strain on House's leg, but House didn't try to squirm free. He just stayed put, petrified.

"You're okay," Wilson repeated. He watched what he could see of House's face for a reaction.

After a second, House turned off the ignition and asked, "Do you mean that?" Timid little boy, but grown man too. Lonely, but hoping not to be.

The times when Wilson couldn't follow him at all were few and far between, but he had just careened into one of them. He took his time answering, scouring his brain for some hint as to what House was _really_ asking him. A minute passed in perfect silence and House seemed to take that as a no. He went still, not frozen anymore but unwilling to do anything at all about the situation. He simply shut down right there in Wilson's arms, a lump of apathy that breathed in the exhausted scent of the late night air, saline drying on his cheeks and in his stubble.

The opportunity to truly connect with him had passed, and Wilson knew it. He kept watching the side of House's face, though; listened to his breathing grow steadier. Eventually, all he could do was ask House again to come inside. It seemed like every ounce of fight had left him and House merely sat up, waiting for Wilson to get off so that he had enough room to swing his leg over the gas tank. They made their slow way up the steps and back into the apartment, too quiet, and Wilson steered them both down the hall without another word. House crawled into bed without looking at him and curled up facing the wall, Wilson right behind him, afraid to stop touching him lest he lose him altogether. House didn't protest at all when Wilson spooned up to him, more yielding than when he had been unconscious on the floor that weekend. It was terrifying to have House give up like this.

Sleep should have come quickly, but Wilson couldn't close his eyes. He monitored House's respirations as they deepened, nearly a week's worth of exhaustion creeping over him. House fell into a much needed slumber and Wilson just kept watching him, counting his breaths, numb. He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, clutching House's wrung out frame and wishing he could undo whatever additional hurt he had just given. Some time later, the remembrance socked him in the gut.

_I don't want to be happy – I can't be happy. I just want somebody to think I'm okay._

"Fuck." Wilson shut his eyes as if to block out the sight of his failure lying in dreamless repose in front of him. It was too late now, but Wilson said it anyway. "Yes, I mean it. I think you're okay."

After a little while, Wilson slept too.

--tbc


	19. Chapter 19

The phone woke him several hours later. Wilson opened gummed eyes to find House still laying in the exact same position as when they'd fallen asleep, perfectly still, not even dreaming. Before the phone could wake him, Wilson levered himself up and leaned over him to pluck it from the cradle on the nightstand. He narrowly avoided knocking over a bottle of Vicodin in the process. Wilson checked the label on a paranoid reflex as he thumbed the talk button on the phone. It was an old bottle, one with Wilson's name on it as the prescribing physician, still half full.

He hesitated with the open phone line in one hand to make sure that House hadn't woken, then raised the cordless to his ear. His voice thick and raspy with interrupted sleep, he said, "This is Doctor Wilson."

"_Oh. James._" Cuddy. She sounded way too chipper for this ridiculous o'clock of the morning. "_Put House on._"

Wilson started to sit up, intending to take the phone into the next room, but House sensed the movement and grabbed for him. All he got was a shirt sleeve, but it lulled him back into unconsciousness. Wilson stayed put, watching him. "I'd rather not wake him; we had sort of a late night."

"_Well, get his lazy ass out of bed. Our lawyer managed to get an emergency hearing, first item on the docket this morning. He needs to be at the courthouse by eight thirty to prep for testimony._"

Wilson checked the time: six twenty. Then he sighed and tried to wipe the crust from the corners of his eyes with fumbling fingers. "Can't Foreman testify? He's the neurologist anyway."

"_And House is the attending. Considering the circumstances, the father's lawyer will want to hear from him._" Cuddy made an exasperated sound and Wilson thought he heard Rachael burble near the phone. "_Dammit._"

"Everything okay?" Wilson studied House's breathing, the way his nostrils flared and air sloughed through his slightly parted lips.

"_Rachael spit up. On my suit jacket._" Clatters followed, and it sounded like Cuddy shrugged out of her dirtied clothes. "_I'll need to buy stock in dry cleaning at this rate._"

That made Wilson smile, but it was a small, distracted expression. Then he sobered. "The…situation. You mean yesterday when security had to drag the dad out?"

Cuddy sighed, every ounce of pent up professional weariness obvious in that one breath. "_They're going to argue that the hearing is part of House's personal vendetta._" Before Wilson could offer even a snort, she added, "_To get back at him for trying to hit you._"

Wilson's brows lowered. "But he didn't try to hit me. He went after House."

A mirthless laugh sounded over the phone. "_That's not what the dad's saying. He claims that House got territorial._"

"Territ – oh." Wilson blinked and cast a worried glance at House's slack face. "Because we're together."

"_The dad heard it from some of the nurses, apparently. I thought you weren't telling people._"

"It sort of slipped in the DX room." Wilson leaned down to palm his forehead without pulling his shirt sleeve away from House's fingers. "Look, this has nothing to do with us. That father is a moron."

"_No argument from me. I met the guy. That doesn't change their defense strategy._"

Wilson muttered, "Fuck," then just sat there. A few seconds later, he lowered his voice and confessed, "We fought last night. House hasn't slept in almost a week, he's in no shape to take the stand – "

"_Yeah, well he has to. There isn't a choice in the matter._" Cloth rustled near the mouthpiece on Cuddy's end; she was probably pulling on a clean blouse or something. "_Look, he's House. He fights with people all the time, and his idea of a good night's sleep consists of twittering at his piano all night and then napping in my exam rooms. He'll be fine. Just _please_ make sure he's at the courthouse on time._" She hung up abruptly without saying goodbye.

Wilson scowled at the phone before tossing it on the bed behind him. Apparently, he was House's designated babysitter now that they slept in the same room. That's all he needed. Didn't people understand yet that Wilson sucked at taking care of him? He sank back down beside House and gently replaced his shirt sleeve with his own hand in House's loose grip. "Hey, buddy. Wake up. You have a court date."

"I'm not asleep."

"Oh." Wilson left off fingering the hair at House's temple and drew away a few inches without really thinking about it. Distance was too natural a thing between them.

"I wasn't asleep last night either."

Wilson looked at him sharply; two glittering blue eyes peered back, watery from sleep. "You…"

"…heard what you said." House's voice grated like stones in a tumbler.

Inexplicably, that made Wilson's heart race. Fight or flight. "I didn't…um. Okay."

House took a deep breath, looked away, and then grumbled, "Sorry."

It was like opening a floodgate of ill-thought words. "You're not a substandard human being, House. You have to believe me – you're just as important as anyone else, and I'm an idiot, and I know half our problems are my fault – "

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it." House tugged his fingers free and rolled away so that he could drop his legs off the edge of the bed. "No more talking."

"I don't wanna go." Wilson bit the inside of his cheek to hear his own desperation.

House snorted and gazed over his shoulder. "Then don't."

Wilson just panted for a second, struck dumb by the finality of that sentence. "Then…we're good? We're… Seriously?"

House merely shrugged and recited, "We hadn't slept and we weren't thinking straight." He peered sidelong at Wilson for a moment. "That was your excuse, right?"

"Uh…yeah." Wilson nodded a few times, uncertain.

"Good." House reached for his cane and Wilson's brow furrowed when he noticed that House just left his Vicodin sitting abandoned on the nightstand.

"This isn't over." Wilson cringed the moment he said it. "We _have_ to talk about this. Soon."

House ignored him but Wilson could tell that he didn't like that ultimatum. "I need coffee. You just…" He flapped a hand at Wilson. "…you know. Whatever." He limped a few steps, dismissive of any lingering issues, and then paused on the threshold. "Hey, Wilson?"

Wilson looked up but his fingers kept picking at themselves. "Yeah?"

"Don't do anything stupid. Okay?"

Wilson couldn't help smiling weakly at House's bowed back. "Okay."

"Okay." His hand slid off the doorjamb as he continued out of the room.

They passed each other a few times while showering and getting dressed, but House somehow maneuvered them so that he was absent when Wilson padded into the kitchen to grab his own coffee. He froze with his hand on the coffee pot because he had just processed the metal lock box sitting open on the counter. When he leaned over to look inside, it was empty. Further exploration revealed two purposefully broken glass vials scattered in shards all over the bottom of the sink. One still bore the morphine label.

Wilson smiled all over himself as he cleaned it up.

* * *

They actually managed to walk into the courthouse fifteen minutes early. The lawyer wasn't even there yet and the hearing room was empty, save for a bailiff and a few gawkers. Wilson left both their jackets folded over the railing behind the plaintiff's table, and then swore when he noticed that he'd lost House. Somewhat predictably, Wilson found him on his way to the vending machines.

When House glanced over his shoulder and saw him following, he held out a hand. "Got a dollar?"

"Actually, no." Wilson hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "There's a coffee stand out in the main entryway. I'll get you one of those frosted, blended syrupy things if you promise to behave."

"Who me?" House made an innocent face. "I always behave."

"Like an egomaniac." Wilson turned toward the hallway leading to the coffee stand.

House kept pace with him. "You didn't specify." He smirked out one side of his mouth and adopted a simpering little boy voice. "Can I still have a treat?"

Wilson tried not to smile but he was still riding the high of knowing that they were more or less okay, relationship-wise. "Fine. Don't tell mom."

"Hmph."

"And your dimples are showing. You should stop before somebody thinks you're happy."

"Oops." He frowned dramatically.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Yeah. That's convincing."

They made it to the coffee stand without incident, but Wilson didn't recognize the guy in front of them at the counter until House grinned and said, "Fancy meeting you here."

His patient's father turned just enough to look at him, then scowled. "You're wasting my time, you know."

"Yeah. I have nothing better to do."

Wilson glared and hissed, "House."

But House's amusement had already faded. His expression grew somber, protracted as he watched the father accept a handful of bills from the cashier. Then his cheek twitched as he came back to himself. Wilson noticed House forcing back a self-satisfied smirk as he asked, "Cross dressing experiment gone awry?"

The father paused on his way to the pick-up area, sizing House up for some unknown reason. "What?"

"Your fingernails." House pointed with the hand holding his cane, then thumped it back to the floor so that he could lean on it, a parody of casual. "You have red coloring staining your cuticles."

The father looked down, then shot House a wary look. It didn't fit the innocuous conversation. "Finger paint. I visited my son this morning."

"Yeah," House drawled, dubious. He swayed to one side, following his own gaze as it skewed. "Cuz that whole father-son bonding thing is just so you." Before the dad could retort, House asked, "Do you wash your hands after you go to the bathroom?"

The father started, caught off guard despite his loathing of his interrogator. "Of course. Do I look like an idiot?"

"You don't want me to answer that," House replied. "You see, finger paint is water soluble. So it would've come off in the sink."

"Look here, freak." The father advanced a few steps and Wilson unconsciously hunched a bit as if to hide behind House. "You stay the hell away from me, and after today, you can stay away from my son too." He stalked off to recover his drink order.

"Hm. Pissy."

Wilson stared at House from under the hand that he was using to cover his eyes. "House!"

House ignored him. "Hey. I hear the meth business is pretty good these days."

Wilson gaped and glanced around; House was drawing curious attention from other coffee-goers.

"What?" The dad stared at House, stunned.

That devilish grin stole over House's face; he knew something. "You wouldn't happen to know where I can score me a high ball, would you?"

Wilson mashed his face into his hands.

"Wait." House feigned pensive. "I think I'm confusing my drug slang. What do you call it when you wanna score meth?"

"House." Wilson tried to sound droll. "You're making your case worse."

"No, actually, I'm making it better," House countered. Then he turned his attention back to the dad. "Well?"

Wilson looked up just in time to watch the dad pick up his coffee without looking at it, cornered savage dog written all over his face. He had to walk by them on his way back to the court room, and he came close enough to brush House's shoulder. Before he passed them, he craned his neck to speak near House's ear and whispered, "Don't fuck with me, faggot." Then he strode away, his footsteps marking an angry staccato on the polished marble floor.

Wilson stared after him, shocked, and then spun back to House. "What the hell are you doing?"

House's blue eyes had turned to steel. "Saving my patient." He glanced at Wilson and ordered, "Bring the coffee back to the court room. I have to go do something."

"You – " Wilson started after him, hesitated in the middle of the hall, then swore and jogged to catch up. "You're making things worse."

"No I'm not." House limped as quickly as he could in the direction the father had gone, but he detoured down a side hall before they reached the courtroom.

"How is taunting your patient's father half an hour before you challenge him in court _not_ making it worse?"

House threw a smug grin over his shoulder. "Watch and learn, young paduan."

Wilson threw up his hands and groaned, but he followed with no further protest. He couldn't help being curious. His confusion mounted when House led the way to the security desk. Wilson hung back; he didn't want to be a part of whatever scheme House had cooked up now, but he tilted his head while House spoke in hushed tones to the guard on duty. The guard frowned and peered doubtfully at House, but whatever House said next wiped the uncertainty off the guy's face. He nodded a few times, asked a question, wrote a few things down, and then actually shook House's hand before he picked up a phone.

House turned around and grinned like an evil imp to see the bewilderment on Wilson's face. "That was fun. You still owe me a coffee."

"Uh. House?" Wilson plodded along at his side, aiming for the coffee stand. "What did you just do?"

"My civic duty," House chirped. "Gosh, it feels good." He sucked in a deep breath, savoring the afterglow of whatever stunt he had just pulled, and then peered sidelong at Wilson. "Quit worrying. You'll get frown lines."

Wilson narrowed his eyes but let it drop. Whatever House had done, he was probably better off not knowing. "Right. I'll just go and alert the mayor so he can schedule the parade."

House offered him a tolerant look, and then fixated on the coffee stand. "You can get me a donut too."

Wilson rolled his eyes and sighed, "Whatever."

Half an hour later, they sat waiting in the court room, House tapping his cane loudly enough to draw irritated glares from the judge, the smugness poorly hidden on his face. Wilson fidgeted in his audience seat behind House, casting worried glances at the empty place where the defendant's lawyer sat, sans client.

Eventually, the judge gave an exasperated sigh and turned her irritation on the lawyer. "Obviously, this proceeding isn't all that important to your client."

"Your honor, I assure you – "

"I'm not in the habit delaying cases to wait for absentee defendants to drag their sorry butts into my courtroom."

House glanced over his shoulder at Wilson, his brows inching upwards, amused. Then he smiled at the hospital attorney before turning a fake rapt look on the judge. Wilson found that troublesome.

"I'm sure he's just caught in traffic," the lawyer offered.

"I don't care if he was abducted by aliens." The judge shifted and reached for her gavel, but she didn't lift it yet. "If you can't produce the father to offer testimony, then I'll be forced to rule in Doctor House's favor."

The defendant's lawyer sucked in a frustrated breath. "His mother can attend in his place."

"Funny." The judge scanned the audience, and then remarked, "I don't see her here either."

House perked up a bit and Wilson only had time enough for one supplication to any all powers that be before House offered, "She's probably at home dishing out candy to unsuspecting teenage drug addicts. And by candy, I mean illegal controlled substances."

The judge and the hospital lawyer both snapped, "Shut up, Doctor House."

House blinked. "Wow. Surround sound."

The dad's lawyer looked at the table, licking his lips, and then moved his shoulders in surrender. "Move for a continuance."

"Denied." The judge picked up her gavel. "From the records sent over by the hospital, the child's condition is grave and urgent. Your client's blatant disrespect for this court forces me to rule in favor of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I am appointing Doctor House as his guardian ad litem in all matters medical for the foreseeable future." She slammed the gavel down. "Next case."

Wilson scrambled after House when he shot out of his seat and made for the exit, his arms full of both their coats. Once they were out in the parking lot, Wilson demanded, "What did you do?"

House stumped along beside him, unconcerned. "Got him arrested."

"You what?!" Wilson skipped a step. "You committed a fraud on the court?"

"Wasn't a fraud." House limped up to Wilson's car and waited for him to unlock it.

Wilson just stood by his trunk, flabbergasted. "House, you had a man arrested under false pretenses – "

"Red phosphorous."

Wilson stopped talking, his mouth hanging open to deliver the rest of the lecture. He balked, closed it, and shook his head. "Wait. Wait, the finger paint under his fingernails?"

House smirked. "Not finger paint."

"He actually is dealing methamphetamine?"

"Not just dealing." House made an impatient gesture at the locked car door. "Making. As in, he has a lab somewhere."

Wilson stared at him, squinted really. "What if you're wrong?"

"I'm not wrong." Like that was obvious.

"House, that could have been anything. Nail polish, tie-dye – "

House merely looked at him.

"Okay, not tie-dye," Wilson conceded. "But for all you know, he was painting his kitchen last night with an oil-based paint."

"Then why didn't he just say that?" House asked, perfectly reasonable.

Wilson furrowed his brow, blinking as if he had something in his eyes. Then he straightened and shrugged. "Okay."

"Okay?" House watched him unlock the passenger door and then round the car to his own side. "That's it? I solve the case, get a drug dealer off the street, save my patient, and all you have to say is 'okay.'"

"I'm happy for you." Wilson gave him a dry look. "Get in."

House parrotted, "Okay," and lowered himself into the Volvo. "You know, the least you could do is buy me that donut."

Wilson paused long enough to look at him. "Fine. I'll buy you a celebratory donut."

"Cool."

House wore his shit-eating grin all the way back to the hospital; he even grinned while Wilson hit the drive-thru at Duncan Donut, and while eating his donut. It was uncanny. But once they passed through the doors at PPTH, House's customary sour disposition took over. By the time they passed the windows of the diagnostics conference room, Wilson could practically smell the foul temper as House shoved through the glass door, cane jabbing the carpet. "Which one of you useless imbeciles searched the patient's home?"

Wilson threw the fellows a covert sympathetic look and ducked around House to get at the coffee pot. He needed a warm up.

"Uh." Kutner stared past his cup of coffee, slightly terrified by the look of him. "I did."

House shifted his weight off the cane and cocked his hip, smiling the way sharks do before they gobble limbs. His voice contained fifteen parts of minced sarcasm to one part false cheer. "Did you think to mention the meth lab?"

"Meth…lab?" Kutner shook his head, slopping a few drops of coffee in the process. "There was no meth lab. I swear."

House threw Wilson an amused look, as if Kutner were a cute puppy who had just chewed up a couch. "No meth lab, he says." He turned back to Kutner and yelled, actually lost his temper and yelled, "He had red phosphorous all over his fingernails, you moron! There's a meth lab in his house somewhere!" House flung his backpack onto a chair and limped one step closer to the conference table. "The dad only wanted a psych referral so he could set his son up as a pathological liar. That way, everybody would ignore anything he said about his lame-ass drug dealing father. Which means the patient wouldn't have gotten treatment, which means that eventually, his sympathetic nervous system would've shut down, and he would've died!"

The room stopped breathing for a second, and then Kutner swallowed, a queasy look on his face as he pushed his coffee away. "There was a shed."

House smiled again, a singularly unpleasant, expectant look. "And?"

"And it was locked." Kutner hurried to explain further. "I figured if _I_ couldn't get in, then the kid couldn't either, and – "

"Go get the kid a fresh MRI." House tossed a marker onto the glass table and turned his back on them, more forbidding in his dismissal than when he had shouted at them. Over his shoulder, he called, "And don't screw it up this time."

Wilson had a half-smile on his face as he watched the fellows sheepishly file out and House stalk into his office. He debated following House but the guy already had his iPod in one hand, in the process of sticking the buds in his ears. Wilson indulged in a private moment of fondness and then added some powdered cream to his coffee before retiring to his own office. Maybe he'd be able to get some work done today with House no longer driving himself nuts over an irrational dad. He could hope.

* * *

Wilson's first clue that things were _not_ actually okay between them came in the form of a text. House said he was too busy for lunch and would meet him at the apartment after work. Wilson frowned because he could see House across the balcony, sitting in his desk chair with his lacrosse ball. The guy didn't look busy, but Wilson had things to do and he didn't want House around to shadow him. He sent back an acknowledgement, refrained from any sappy sign-offs or emoticon hearts, and gathered his lab coat and one other important item on his way out of his office.

The third floor was dismal. It had always been dismal. What sort of logic led the building decorators to conclude that it was a good idea to make the psych floor drab enough to induce a major depressive episode in an otherwise perfectly stable person? Wilson plodded to his old therapist's door, his head hung low as if to hide his face. He hesitated in front of it to give himself a moment for second and third thoughts, then knocked. A muffled voice bid him enter and he steeled himself before he pushed the door open. He hated psychiatrists almost as much as House.

Doctor Olivia Turner glanced up from a spread of cafeteria food on her desk, then started. "Doctor Wilson. Nice to see you."

Wilson offered a queasy smile as he shut the door in his wake. "Do you, uh, have a minute?"

"Is this a consult or a session?" Doctor Turner indicated the manila folder clenched in Wilson's hands.

Wilson sighed and palmed his neck. He would much rather this visit concern a patient, maybe a terminal or depressed one, as cruel a thought as that was; he often consulted with Doctor Turner. Reluctantly, he admitted, "Session. I have a problem."

"Ah." Turner picked up a napkin and sat back in her chair to clean off her fingers. "I told you therapy was the way to go. Anti-depressants alone can only take you so far."

Wilson grimaced, mostly to himself. "Look, if I'm interrupting your lunch, I can come back some other time – "

"Sit your ass down." Turner stabbed a finger at a chair across from her. "God, I know international spies that evade less than you."

"Uhb." Wilson made some quirky little half bow, as if conceding her authority in a vat of confusion, then smiled in his usual way and sat.

"So, talk. First session's a freebee."

Wilson's brows furrowed. "Since when?"

Turner tilted her head, almost coy and yet still exuding professionalism. "Since you put up with my cousin trying to feel you up when you gave her a breast exam. She still thinks that somehow _wasn't_ a rejection."

"Oh." Wilson couldn't stop the bashful, toothy grin from emerging. "Yes, well." He shrugged. "House refers to my charm as an unstoppable plague."

"_Doctor_ House? The one from the fourth floor?" Turner pulled a face. "He threw a cashew at me from the lobby balcony yesterday. Honey roasted, at that."

Wilson's mouth twisted up at one corner and he lifted his eyebrows. "Yeah. _That_ Doctor House."

"Hm." Turner studied him for a second. "You're still friends, right? As I recall, he's the reason you gave for wanting medication three years ago. Should I assume that you still haven't managed to get rid of him?"

Wilson took a deep breath and wondered how amusing his face looked right now. "We're sleeping together." It just sort of fell out and went plop between them.

Turner stared, then drew back. "Oh." She tapped her fingernails on some desk trinkets and then said, "I thought you were trying to _distance_ yourself from him. Something about a police investigation and stealing from your office…" She waved her hand in an et cetera gesture. "Somehow, I don't think that sleeping with him qualifies as distance."

Wilson pursed his lips. "You're an awfully opinionated therapist, aren't you."

"That's your trigger." She gave him a knowing smile. "I offer opinions that I know will ruffle your feathers, and you drop your nice guy mask long enough to make an honest response. Or, you know. Retort, argument… You get the picture." She picked up a carrot stick and munched disinterestedly, watching Wilson the whole time.

"Mm." Wilson's face screwed up in irritation and he glanced at a silk plant beside her desk. "Something tells me I'm not gonna like you."

"As a therapist, no. You'll hate me." She grinned. "But you'll come crawling back again and again and again…" She twirled the gnawed end of her carrot stick in the air. "So. This problem of yours. I'm going to guess relationship troubles."

Wilson's eyes found the ceiling off to one side as he drawled, "Yeah. But that's a misnomer."

Turner's brows furrowed though she was looking at her picked-over lunch instead of him. "How so?"

"House says it's not a relationship." Wilson pressed his lips together, then added, "But it is. He's just…" Wilson sighed and dug a thumb between his eyes. "Yeah, this isn't his fault. I can't figure out what the hell I'm doing. I'm actually starting to think I made a mistake." The confession left him slumped in his chair, drumming his fingers on the folder that rested in his lap. "I'm no good for him."

Turner gave him a sympathetic look. "Honey, neither one of you has any business being in a relationship with a normal human being. You both have issues coming out your ears." She cupped her hands near the sides of her head in a manner that put Wilson in mind of cauliflower.

Wilson glared. "Do tell."

"Well." Turner folded her hands, a mocking lecture stance, and smiled sweetly. God, it was like having therapy with House. He hadn't actually _talked_ to the woman for more than two minutes when he came to beg for a script. "First, there's him. Classic avoidant personality disorder, certainly undiagnosed. Coupled with some brand of oppositional defiant disorder, though I think he affects that one on purpose to cover a fear of authority figures. He's got no self esteem outside of his medical practice, he's depressed, he drinks, and he's emotionally as well as physically dependant on an opiate pain medication." She waved a hand in dismissal. "Well, that's the first impression anyway. Can't know for sure unless he actually comes in to talk." A smile sweetened her face and she picked up a slurpee cup. "Which we both know he won't."

Wilson fidgeted, then stilled his bouncy leg. "Okay. That's…" He took a second to come up with an appropriate word, one that would convey both his professional respect and his annoyance with her presumption. He settled on a somewhat sarcastic, "…insightful."

Turner shot him a knowing grin and teased, "You don't agree with me."

"It's not that," Wilson snapped. Then he forced himself to calm, to wear his amiable doctor mask. "It's just…not that simple."

"See, no. That's not gonna work." Turner slammed her slurpee down and pointed a menacing finger in his direction. "Take it off."

Wilson threw a stuttering glance at himself, taken aback. "What? What did I do?"

Turner ducked her head and peered severely at him from her position across the desk. "I have no interest in talking to one-James-fits-all Wilson. You came in here for _you_ – the fuck up who's sleeping with his asshole best friend."

"I'm not ashamed!" That was becoming wrote by now.

"Interesting." Turner steepled her fingers and pried into his psyche by virtue of stare alone. "I wasn't going for shame over bisexuality. But it's funny that _you_ went there with hardly any provocation. I would have bet the fuck up part would set you off first, but it's like I never even said it."

"You're right," Wilson asserted forcefully. "I don't like you at all."

"You're not supposed to." Turner leaned back, perhaps to take the focus off of Wilson to put him at a false sense of ease. "Medieval knights used to go on perilous quests where they had to face all manner of horrible and trying obstacles. Wanna know which one was the worst?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "No, but I'm sure you'll tell me anyway."

"There was a story at one point about a cave. Inside the cave, a man would find himself waiting." Turner smiled, but it was in sympathy this time. "Every knight who went in there eventually ran back out screaming. No one wants to see their true selves. It would drive them mad."

Wilson clasped his hands over the folder in his lap and tried to look at anything except Turner. He made a speculative face and then said, "That's encouraging." Then he nodded to underscore his choice of adjective.

Turner grinned, sly. "It's not the dark spaces that people fear to see in themselves, James. It's the blatant weaknesses that we deceive ourselves about that scare the hell out of us. No one wants to be vulnerable."

Wilson looked up. He knew that his face was too open; he could feel that pitiful little dumbfounded look pulling his skin slack. A little hoarsely, he offered, "House says that. Not so colloquially, but." He blinked. "Olivia, I don't want him to hurt anymore. And I'm terrified that I'm the one standing in his way. I can't understand him most of the time, I say things that I think are innocent but he can tell they're not. You see, he has this method of carrying on a conversation. It makes keeping up with him almost impossible." Wilson shifted in his chair, betraying equal parts eagerness to disclose and unease with talking about House this way. "He breaks conversations off in the middle because he needs to process it before he can really respond. And then hours or days, even months later, you think you're talking about one thing, and he just suddenly takes up that old conversation again as if absolutely no time has passed. And he expects you to follow him. In fact, it confuses and frustrates him when you can't. He knows that his mind works differently from most people's, but at the same time, he can't understand why everyone else is incapable of thinking the way he does. And he feels isolated, and it hurts, and he works overtime to make sure that no one can make him feel that way again."

Turner nodded, less confrontational now that Wilson was actually talking. "Keep going."

Wilson nodded and licked his lips, nervous. "His boss, the dean, she's supposedly an old friend of his. They both attended Michigan. Now, I know that House is an ass, but he's _not_ a bad guy. He toes the line all the time, but he only goes too far when there are extenuating circumstances. He can be polite when the occasion warrants."

Turner's expression became pensive, perhaps suspecting where this might be going in a general sense. "People dislike him. That can't be news to him."

"No," Wilson confirmed. "In fact, he encourages people to stay away from him. But people like me and Lisa… He expects us to know where the line is too. And about a month ago, she said something to him…and I have to admit, I've heard less cruel things spill from the mouths of strangers." Wilson pursed his lips for a moment. "There was a party. A Judaic ceremony for her foster daughter."

"Let me guess," Turner interjected. "She didn't want him to come."

"I don't know what the hell she wanted," Wilson snapped, though his ire had nothing to do with Turner's speculation. "But what she did was make a heartfelt request for him to attend because she wanted him there to share a special moment in her life. He accepted." Wilson's hand had already migrated to the back of his neck, but for once, he left it there. "And then later that day, she made an equally heartfelt plea for him to stay away. She told him that she didn't want her loving ceremony ruined by the presence of somebody filled with loathing and contempt. She said it right to his face, like he's incapable of being a human being – like it didn't mean anything to him that he was invited in the first place. She said nice things to him, made him think that she respected him, that she enjoyed his company, that he meant something to her as a person, and then she just took it all back." Wilson glared at Turner even though she had nothing to do with the offense. "It was uncalled for and it was mean. And she thinks it doesn't matter because it's House, and he doesn't have feelings to hurt." Wilson paused. "But he does, and she hurt them. She…she reiterated his worthlessness to society. She basically told him that if it weren't for his skills as a doctor, he'd have no use at all."

"That's harsh." Turner glanced down and absently rearranged the remains of her lunch. "You took special offense to that on his behalf." She took a moment to watch him absorb that. "She's not the first person to insinuate that he has no worth, is she. My guess would be…parents? You take this personally because it's something that hits House in a special way." She tilted her head with a wry smile. "No one can make us feel special like our parents can."

Wilson nodded, but it wasn't a response; it was more circumspect. "I don't think I should talk about that with you."

"You don't want to lose his trust?"

"I'm not sure how much of it I really have to begin with." Wilson gave her a sheepish look. "House knows me. As he says, and I quote, he can only trust me to be myself." He looked down and gave a self-deprecating snort. "It's not a compliment."

"And then we come to your issues."

Wilson sighed and closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear this part, but it was the reason he came here. He flipped a hand in her direction as if she were imposing and said, "Go on."

"What are you worth, James?"

Wilson froze for a second, and then his eyes fumbled to meet hers. "What?"

Clearly enough for a deaf person to understand, Turner enunciated, "What are _you_ worth?"

Wilson's head shook back and forth, his eyebrows rumpled. "I don't understand."

"Yeah, I caught that." Turner frowned at her massacred meal and then pushed the remains aside, leaving them in a heap of cellophane wrap and sticker price tag labels. Then she crossed her arms on her ink blotter and put on her professional airs, all at once so serious that Wilson shrank back a bit. "You think you're a failure." From her tone, she was trying to say this kindly; it still hurt. "You've been married and divorced three times. You're a serial womanizer incapable of making an exclusive long term commitment, maybe because you lose interest or maybe because you're not happy… I'm willing to bet that you even consider your inability to be happy a failure." She took a fresh breath. "You're ashamed of this relationship because it confirms just how far you've fallen. It feels like giving up on success. House is your booby prize. He's not good enough for you, and everyone knows it. Including House." She locked her gaze with his. "And you agree."

Turner barely gave Wilson time to digest that, deer in the headlights expression gaping at her, before she went on. She probably knew that he wouldn't be able to respond coherently to that first part. "Furthermore, you're obsessed with fixing things – fixing people; it gives you satisfaction to make a positive difference. And yet you chose oncology, with a focus on pediatrics of all places, to focus your efforts. So here you are, succeeding in making people feel better, in helping their families through difficult times, in easing the passage of terminal _children_. You make a positive difference in these lives every day. And yet you are constantly a failure because you didn't cure them."

"Wait, wait. No." Wilson waved his hands at her, ill at ease, and forced himself not to grab for his neck. "I don't set myself up to fail. I don't."

"Maybe not consciously." Turner was watching him now, intent, her critical eye very much like House's diagnostic eye when he finally stumbles onto the right track. "But you seek out ways to reinforce this behavior – this desperate attempt to sooth, even though you know it can only end in failure. You make yourself sick with it." She paused, observing his stunned return stare. "Who did you let down?"

Wilson blinked. He could feel his heart slamming into his sternum. "That's not what I came here for."

"Isn't it? You're a walking contradiction. You self-righteously believe that you're better than House, and yet you think you're no good for him – that you're screwing things up even more. As in, you're letting him down. And I highly doubt that this sort of feeling is a first time thing for you." Her eyes blinked in slow motion; she could tell how unsettled Wilson was. "What are you afraid you'll do, James?"

"Drive him away." God, was that his voice? It sounded so small. "I'll do something…too much, or push things he can't handle…and he'll run." Wilson tried to suck in a deep breath but it hitched somewhere halfway in. "He thinks…he has to hide things, and he just…he can't stand to be weak because…what if somebody hurts him? And it…" Wilson's lips stayed parted for a few moments as he stared off into space. He wasn't sure who he was talking about anymore – himself, House…Danny. She had left him _that_ discombobulated with a single innocuous question. For a long time, House had been like a brother to him; he even reminded Wilson a little bit of Danny. He likes to think that they would have gotten along, that House would have found Danny interesting enough to tolerate.

Turner let him sit there for a few seconds, silently blinking at the wall over her shoulder in shock. "James."

Wilson came back to himself with a start. "Yeah?"

"Did you fail somebody before? Somebody who needed your help? Somebody who trusted you?"

Wilson swallowed hard and then made his clumsy way to his feet. "I'm – I forgot. I have to – patient. I have a patient." He paused facing the door when he noticed the manila folder clutched in his trembling hands. That little folder – that was failure; it was tangible proof that he could and did betray House's trust. After making an abortive attempt to leave, he spun back and thrust the folder at Turner. "I don't want this. I don't wanna look at it anymore; it was stupid to ask for it."

Turner took the folder without comment and placed it on her desk. "Okay. I'll hold onto it for you."

"Okay." Wilson nodded, glanced at Turner's hands folded on top of army documents and sealed reports, and then met her eyes again for a moment. "I have to go now. Can't really be late."

"It isn't polite," Turner agreed. She made no move to hinder his abrupt exit. "Come by whenever."

"Right." Wilson shifted in place, then added a curt, "Thanks," because he was supposed to thank people for their time. Then he made an undignified, hasty retreat. The hallway felt like a breath of fresh air.

* * *

Wilson paced for a while in his office, which wasn't easy considering the clutter of furniture. His mind still reeled and he didn't have a clue how to stop it, aside from doing something to fix this situation. It didn't even occur to him to wonder what the situation was; he just wanted to make it better. He couldn't stand to feel this way, like an umbrella stand in a desert.

He just needed something to focus on, and House came to mind first. It was always easier to deal with someone else's problems. Olivia may have been right, which meant that House was right too in a way; this was his pathology, to fix something just to distract himself, to prolong his own denial. To fix some_one_. With a wary eye trained on the empty balcony, Wilson flipped open his cell and scrolled through his contacts. He had saved Blythe's home phone number on an incongruous whim when she had called about John's funeral. Some part of Wilson must have known that he couldn't stay away from House forever, no matter how much he had wanted to for a while there.

He pressed the send button once he found the number and waited, still observing his glass door to make sure that House stayed safely out of ear shot. Wilson didn't know if this was the right thing to do; House had not been himself last night when he had said he wanted her, but Wilson thought that maybe, just maybe, he could pull this off and finally help House the right way. And anyway, he kept hearing House's voice ring in his ears, choked and terrified and desperate to shut Wilson up because he couldn't stand to hear Wilson elevate him to a level that made him important outside of medicine. Maybe House had spoken on reflex, something old and long buried; little boys call for their moms when they're scared in the middle of the night.

The line clicked and Wilson straightened his clothes as if Blythe could see him sitting tousled in his office. Silence reigned for a few long seconds, and then Blythe said, "_James?_" Caller ID.

"You have to apologize to him."

Blythe didn't respond right away. When she finally spoke, she sounded weary but concerned. "_I didn't mean for Sarah to call him. Is he okay now?_"

Blunt to the point of rudeness, Wilson replied, "No. You need to apologize, and not for that." He could feel himself warming up, like a revved engine shuddering while a red light swayed in front of him. "For the other things. All of it."

"_James…_" Blythe gave a tired sigh and Wilson heard her sit down. "_I know you mean well. You're trying to help Greg, and I appreciate that. But what happened when he was little… You just don't understand._"

"What I understand is that you're House's mother," Wilson snapped, prancing in place with his free hand on his hip. "And this isn't about you. He's your son, and he _needs_ to hear you say it. It doesn't matter what happened, or if you think it was justified, or – or any of that. It's about him. It's about making him feel less like a worthless piece of crap. You owe him that whether you think you did anything wrong or not."

Blythe made an exasperated sound, and when she spoke, she did so as a mother, lecturing. "_Times were different, James. People raised their children harder. Really, what John did wasn't half as bad as what some of the other fathers did to punish their children. And Greg _was_ a precocious boy. He refused to listen, he was arrogant, he talked back – _"

"Do you love him?"

Blythe sputtered, "_What? Of course. I don't want him to be somebody he's not. I just want him to be happy. So did John. Do you think he would've been happy if he got expelled from school or if he ended up in prison? Maybe we didn't go about it the right way, but we didn't know what else to do. We tried everything to make him behave, and he refused._"

Wilson did his best to ignore all of that. He wouldn't kid himself into thinking that he could pry remorse out of the woman; Blythe had convinced herself that all of that was true. She lived in the same sort of meticulously constructed lie that House had lived in for most of his life, the deflective kind. For some people, that was they only way to cope. In any case, he hadn't called to force Blythe to confront herself; he had called for House's sake, and to that end, Wilson asked, "Do you love him enough to apologize so that he can get over this and move on?"

No sound made its way over the phone line for a while; Wilson could practically hear Blythe weighing this question in her mind.

Wilson relented and found a seat in a patient chair. "Blythe, he needs this. You're his mother. Just…" He drifted off and rested his forehead in his free hand, his eyes closed over a patch of carpet between his feet. "It doesn't matter what the truth is anymore. Just do what's right for him."

Softly, Blythe asked, "_It's that important to him?_"

"See it from his perspective," Wilson pled. "He believes the…punishments" – the very word sat ill on his tongue – "were excessive. He thinks… Blythe, I don't know what else to say to you."

"_Will it help him?_"

Wilson opened his eyes to study the carpet fibers. "I don't know. I hope so." He hesitated, and then added, "He asked for you last night. We fought and he couldn't deal with me saying some things." Wilson didn't know if he should go on to where he wanted to. It seemed like emotional blackmail, but he was certain that it would work. After a moment of contemplation, he drew in a deep breath, expelled it, and said, "I'm not allowed to tell him I love him because that's what you tell him – that John only hurt him because he loved him."

Blythe breathed something incomprehensible into the phone, and then Wilson thought he heard her pulling tissues from a box. If anything, making her cry merely served to leave Wilson feeling like a bully. "_God, no. That's not what we wanted._"

"I know." Wilson scrubbed at his face, maybe in the hopes of wiping off invisible marks of his own cruelty, saying that to someone's mother. "Blythe, I know." He wished she would stop crying or hang up on him or something; he could hear her sniffling in the background and it made him feel about two inches tall. "I'll book you a flight. You can come here for a few days."

"_It's our fault, isn't it. We made him unhappy._"

Good Lord, how he wished he could say yes to that. But it wasn't necessarily true. "Blythe, go to the airport. I'll arrange everything; it'll be waiting at the booking desk. Okay?"

"_James, I didn't think he felt that way. He never actually says anything when he talks to me._"

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and sternly repeated, "Go to the airport. Call me when you land and I'll pick you up. We can talk then."

"_Okay._" Blythe rustled something near the receiver, probably wiping a tissue across her face. "_Okay, I'll just be an hour._"

"I'll get everything set up for you." Wilson hung up before she could say anything further, or cry and make him feel even worse. He stared at his phone afterwards, his thumb hovering over the end button. It only then occurred to him to wonder if that had been a good idea.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon could only be described as impossible. Impossible to concentrate, impossible to calm down, impossible to forget Olivia calling him a failure or to block out the memory of House's voice the night before screaming at him to stop saying loving things…to forget that if Wilson hadn't opened his big nearly-drunk mouth at dinner with Blythe and outed them, then Blythe wouldn't have made an ill-thought comment about John, House wouldn't have gotten upset, and _none of this_ would be happening right now. It was impossible for Wilson to be anything other than jumpy and irritated while he sat behind him desk, tense enough to snap like a blade of grass under the weight of a hummingbird.

Everything passed in a daze; he barely recalled going to the bathroom, much less meeting with his staff or writing up monthly budget estimates. Wilson had finished his charting and was busy pre-writing scripts for tomorrow afternoon's outpatient appointments when Cuddy tapped on the window next to his office door. Since his blinds were tilted open, he could take in her anger at a glance, and he sighed before lifting himself heavily to his feet, his prescription pad in one hand and pen in the other.

She opened the door at his reluctant gesture and stood poised in the doorframe, indignant. "You let him get his patient's father arrested just so that he could win his case?"

Wilson blinked his eyes wider in exasperation at the door near her hand. It was an expression House might make. "He was dealing."

Cuddy's eyes rolled. "James, House would lie to his own mother if he wanted – "

"No, he was _actually_ dealing," Wilson cut in, his hands held up, palms facing her. "Crystal meth." With a wry and somewhat annoyed glance, Wilson returned to his seat and set his pad and pen down. "Don't worry; I already called social services."

"For the kid?"

Wilson scoffed. "No, for House." Wilson bent his head back to his work, but not until he'd scowled at Cuddy for being an idiot. "How did you find out, anyway?"

"My hospital lawyer," Cuddy replied. She sounded tired now, defeated. She usually did after House pulled a stunt and turned out right. "He called to tell me that the prosecutor gave him a courtesy call. The dad got himself arraigned right after lunch, and then he posted bail. Apparently, having a kid in the hospital speeds along the justice process. And it makes judges grant bail to people who should be held _without_ bond."

"Oh." Wilson glanced aside and then said, "He's gonna kill House."

Cuddy shrugged, but it wasn't dismissive for once. "The two of you should probably go home. I'll beef up security too – the dad will have an escort as long as he's here." She paused, then turned curious. "What is that guy's name, anyway?"

"Um." Wilson crinkled his brow in thought. "You know, I can't remember. Ask Foreman."

"I'll get a copy of the kid's file from him." She started to leave, then looked over her shoulder. "Was he right about the diagnosis?"

"I haven't talked to him since this morning, but since he hasn't come in here to pout, I'm guessing yes." Wilson skimmed the pages in front of him to figure out where he left off.

"But he hasn't come in here to gloat, either," Cuddy pointed out. When Wilson made a noncommittal grunt in response to that, Cuddy approached the desk again. "Is he avoiding you?"

Wilson flicked his pen down and glared at her. "As far as I can tell, yes. I already told you we had a fight last night. It was ugly. But he's House, remember? It doesn't matter. He'll bounce back because according to you, it's just what he does. I'm not even worried. See?" He pointed to his glowering face. "Can I get back to work now?"

Cuddy blinked, started to say something, and then gave a troubled nod as she finally left, her retreat punctuated by an awkward clicking of high heels on tile.

Wilson snatched his pen up from halfway across the desk and tried to remember what he was writing a script for. What was it with people butting in all of a sudden? He glanced at his computer monitor to check the time: a little after three. He had booked a four o'clock flight for Blythe, so she should be boarding soon. Cuddy was right; they should leave. With a long suffering sigh, Wilson tidied his files and started to close up shop for the evening. He could bring tomorrow's patient files home with him and finish the scripts there; that would make him feel better, being totally prepared before he turned in for the night.

That was when he got his second clue that all was not well between him and House. With no warning, Foreman barged into Wilson's office, devoid of politeness. "House locked himself in his office. He won't come out."

The abruptness took Wilson off guard and he merely stared for a moment. "He locks himself in there all the time."

"Not like this," Foreman insisted. "Something's wrong."

Wilson looked at him, but when nothing more seemed forthcoming, he snapped, "Am I supposed to _guess_ what happened?"

Foreman glanced down, his feet shuffling as if to recover his superiority, and then he relented a bit. "His mom called." As if anticipating an outburst, he rushed to add, "I gave him an out. I offered to say he was in the clinic or busy."

Wilson did indeed have an outburst roiling around in his gut. He groused something incomprehensible and pissed, flung a handful of files down, and shouted at his desk, "I told her to get on a damn plane! Not call him!" The fingers of one hand dug into his own side, the other held away from himself palm down, as if to distance the problem. In a fit of pique, he strode out from behind his desk to peer across the balcony into House's office. Nothing moved over there and his desk chair was empty. Wilson breathed out a long sigh, his eyes dropping automatically, and then he faced Foreman. He could only raise his eyes in intermittent moments. "What did he say? Did he take the call in the DX room?"

"Yeah. At our computer desk." Foreman stepped closer and let Wilson's door swing shut in his wake. "He said 'hi,' 'fine,' and then he just listened for a while. I'm pretty sure he hung up on her, though; I could hear her talking on the other end when he took the receiver away from his ear. He looked…I dunno. Spooked? I asked if everything was okay; it was like he didn't even hear me."

"Okay." Wilson ran a hand through his hair and then tried to catch sight of House again. After casting Foreman a worried glance, he said, "Can you get me a syringe of Ativan?"

Foreman's brows fell. "You're freaking out? You caused this, didn't you."

"_He's_ probably freaking out," Wilson corrected. "I don't even want to know what she said to him." Actually, he did, but his curiosity was too morbid to contemplate right now.

Foreman blew an irritated breath out through his nose, perhaps aiming for contemptuous, but he couldn't conceal the concern. "I'll bring it over." Then he pulled the door open with a shake of his head, as if disappointed by something Wilson had done.

Wilson made a face at Foreman's back before heading for the balcony door. He went out and hopped the divider with little thought, but he paused at House's door. He could see very little inside, owing to the dim afternoon light and the murk of an office with no lamps turned on. A dim silhouette stood out nonetheless; House's gangly form cast an upright shadow in the middle of his office, a blot of darkness in the bare air.

Wilson took a breath and pushed through the door, catching House in the act of returning his Vicodin to his blazer pocket. "Hey, House."

A sluggish twitch was the only sign that House heard him. He didn't move from his spot near the corner of his desk, staring with unseeing eyes at the empty wall of his office.

The door shut with a soft shush and Wilson stepped closer. He lost a fair bit of nerve once he came within arm's reach, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets in a vain attempt to disguise his unease. "Your patient's dad made bail. We should leave before he gets here." That garnered no reaction whatsoever, so Wilson self-consciously tried for light heartedness. "If you get shot in here again, people will talk."

House's head tilted but he didn't turn to face Wilson. His voice was flat and too neutral when he answered. "You'd hafta save my carpet from Cuddy again. It's a hassle."

Wilson's eyebrows gathered together when he caught the slight slur to House's words.

"This time, she'd think you're only doing it cuz you're sleeping with me." House shuffled away and collapsed into his Eames chair; he didn't seem to have energy enough to put his feet up.

Wilson followed and eased himself onto the stool. "House, are you drunk?"

House shook his head like an old nag irritated by flies. "Leg hurts." His eyes meandered around and finally came to rest on the bookshelf to his left.

Even though he already knew the answer, Wilson asked, "Did you take something?" He reached out and laid a few tentative fingers on House's knee.

House shifted enough to get a look at Wilson from the corner of one eye. He sounded lost and incredulous when he said, "She apologized."

Wilson squinted and leaned in to see his face better. "Your pupils are dilated." They were also glassy and House's poise reminded Wilson of the way he had sat in his office chair months ago with a DNA test result and a bottle of liquor. "House? Are you still with me?"

"Why would she do that?"

Wilson started. "What do you mean, why? How many Vicodin did you take?"

House gave a lazy blink and then took to conversing with the bookshelf again. "Dunno." It wasn't clear which question that was supposed to answer. He made a reflexive search through his pockets, patting himself down until he heard the soothing rattle of a pill bottle, which he fished out.

Wilson ignored their usual boundaries and slipped the bottle from House's lax grip. It furthered Wilson's concern when House merely let it go and dropped his hand back to rest over his scar. "You just took one, House. Remember?"

House shrugged, his face expressionless to a degree that Wilson could actually read it. The paradox bothered him. "She said she's coming here." He wilted a bit in the chair and then settled lower.

Wilson dipped his head to look at the bottle he held, and then he stared at the two capsules left. "This is the one that was on your nightstand this morning. House, the bottle was half full."

House swung his head around so that he could see for himself. His eyes unfocused for a second, and then he mumbled, "Wasn't paying attention."

"House, did you take them all today?" Wilson tried to catch his eye but House was already facing the bookshelf again, his respirations shallow and his lips parted just enough to breathe through them. "House." Wilson dropped the bottle in favor of seizing House's shoulders to keep his attention.

House flinched under Wilson's hands but it succeeded in grabbing his focus. "Wilson, she lied."

Wilson finally started hearing what House was saying; up until then, he'd been more worried than attentive. "What do you mean?"

"Said it shouldna happened." House's feet fumbled as he tried to push himself up straighter in the chair, and he ran a hand across his forehead in an absent gesture to remove nonexistent perspiration.

Wilson glanced around and his eyes fell again on the Vicodin bottle, which had rolled partway under the stool. If it had been half full this morning, that meant that in about ten hours, House had taken at least ten pills. Wilson couldn't afford the time to listen right now. He tightened his grip on House's shoulders and shook him lightly. "House, did you take all of those today? The Vicodin?"

"No." House shook his head and made a lame attempt to get up. Wilson shoved him back down and let him plop somewhat gracelessly against the back of the chair. "No, I had one…at the courthouse…and I think before lunch…I don't…I think maybe." His gaze wandered to the mostly empty bottle as well and he leaned so far past Wilson that he nearly fell off the chair; Wilson had to haul him back upright. Hesitantly, he decided, "Must've taken them."

Wilson gawped for a second. "You don't remember taking them?"

House merely repeated, "Wasn't paying attention." He sort of melted back the Eames chair and cast his eyes on the bookshelf again, languid blinks over glazed azure rings.

"Shit." Wilson stumbled to his feet and grabbed the trash can from behind House's desk, along with one of the tongue depressors that, for some reason, House kept stocked in a coffee mug in a drawer of his desk. He tore the paper wrapping off with his teeth as he crossed the office and set the trash can on the carpet. House had been fine earlier in the day; Foreman would have said something if he had been this stoned before. So House must have _just_ taken the majority of the Vicodin, probably without thinking…an automatic comfort response. Wilson had to get the pills out of him before they dissolved and hit his bloodstream. God, he hoped House hadn't chewed them.

"Whader you doin'?" House's hazy eyes tracked Wilson's movements, his head tipping back as Wilson loomed closer, wielding the tongue depressor.

Wilson made an apology before roughly hauling House off the chair and dumping him on the carpet near the trash can. House gave an indignant squawk, but even that sounded drugged. Wilson dropped to his knees and thrust the tongue depressor under House's nose. "You don't even realize how many pills you took, House. You overdosed."

House's eyes widened a bit, highlighting the pits of black hemmed by cobalt irises. "No I didn't."

Shaking his head, Wilson groped around the stool until he found the pill bottle, which he displayed for House to see. "How many were in here this morning?" Wilson could see House struggling to focus; more Vicodin flowed through his veins every second. It didn't look like House had much volition left, so Wilson discarded the bottle and moved up on his knees behind House. He propelled House's head toward the trashcan before unceremoniously shoving the tongue depressor halfway down his throat.

House made a choked protest around the thin length of wood and struggled a bit, but he didn't have his usual strength. Wilson kept trying to engage his gag reflex, one hand roughly gripping House's jaw to keep him in the vicinity of the trash can. Dry swallowing Vicodin for nearly a decade had diminished but not eliminated House's gag reflex and he eventually folded forward, his body elongating as he heaved. Wilson got his hand out of the way in time for what looked like coffee to come up, but nothing more.

That was when the gravity of the situation finally hit. With a far corner of his attention, Wilson saw Foreman come in via the balcony and freeze in surprise on the threshold, but Wilson was already trying to get House to throw up again. If they couldn't get the Vicodin out this way, they would have to use Naloxone again, and House would probably give serious consideration to committing involuntary manslaughter. Wilson ignored House's weak attempts to get his hands off and the labored coughs that he made around the tongue depressor until House finally convulsed again. This time, a couple of partially digested chalky white capsules clattered into the trash can along with the coffee. A third attempt brought several more, and then Wilson dropped the tongue depressor in favor of holding House around the waist while he dry heaved a few times on top of it, reflexive tears streaming down House's cheeks from the strain of vomiting.

Foreman's shoes arrived in Wilson's periphery, shiny toes with too few scuffs for a man on his feet all day. In Wilson's grasp, House shivered and hung his face over the trash can just in case, spitting now and then to get the taste out and snuffling his clogged nose. Foreman passed Wilson some tissues, which Wilson placed in House's trembling fingers.

They all remained in place until House rasped a shaky, "Sorry," out between shallow pants. He reached behind himself for the Vicodin bottle that Wilson had dropped, and at first, Wilson's gut sank at the thought that House was going to take one. He didn't, though; he immediately thrust the bottle against Wilson's chest and waited for him to take it.

Wilson covered House's fingers for a moment as he accepted the bottle, and then he slipped it into his own pocket with an inaudible sigh of relief.

"Eight," House murmured in disbelief, peering into the puddle of his own sick.

Wilson leaned over to count the coughed up pills as well, his insides quailing as he realized that House had a bigger problem with the Vicodin than he had ever suspected. House wasn't taking them consciously anymore; it was a habit of the worst variety. They both looked up when Foreman crouched down and put his stethoscope on. He listened to House's chest cavity for a few seconds, Foreman and House himself strangely docile, and then he counted House's respirations. Once he had satisfied himself, Foreman rose without comment and unlocked the door to the conference room. It was only after he'd been gone for over a minute that Wilson realized Foreman did not intend to come back.

House craned his neck to see past Wilson's shoulder to the spaces between the blinds, still breathing in rapid, shallow bursts. "Funny. I figured he'd lecture or something." He twisted further to get a good look at Wilson too, more like his usual self, and smirked. "At least I can still count on you to rant and rave. Gives me interesting things to ignore."

"House…" Wilson's voice cracked and he stopped, his eyes falling to his own hands where they rested on his knees.

House's feigned nonchalance flowed away and he faced forward again too quickly, his chin tilted up. "I didn't mean to."

Wilson gripped House's shoulder and squeezed; it was the sentimental sort of thing he normally didn't dare do with House, but he needed to touch him right now. "I know. We'll get you help."

With a snort, House scoffed, "Help. Right." He deflated, though, and the snark sounded indescribably wrong in that context. After shrugging Wilson's hand off, he asked, "Where's my cane?"

Wilson bit his lip and stretched to grab it from where House had let it fall on the far side of the Eames chair. He dragged it near enough to properly pick it up, but hesitated. On an impulse, he left it there out of House's reach and instead scooted around House so that he could sit leaning against the wall. Then he ignored House's quirked eyebrow and manhandled him so that he was sitting sideways between Wilson's legs, the left side of his torso pressed to Wilson's and his legs stretched all over the floor in a tangle of ankles.

House tensed all over as Wilson's arms enfolded him, and then made an obvious effort to unknot his muscles. "What are you doing?"

"Making myself feel better." Wilson forced House's head down so that he could tuck it under his chin.

"Okay." House resituated his bad leg so that it laid straight, and then turned a bit away from Wilson so that his shoulder wasn't digging into Wilson's solar plexus. "As long as it's all about you." To contradict that, he sagged back, molding himself against Wilson's chest.

Wilson indulged in a soft chuckle. "Yeah. All for me."

For a while after that, they didn't talk. Wilson's right hand somehow ended up scrunching the hair at the back of House's head, half caress and half scalp massage, and House occupied himself by picking carpet fibers off of Wilson's pant leg. Then House sighed and asked, "Why did you call her?"

Wilson bowed his head and inhaled House's hair: shampoo and hospital. It came as little surprise that House knew he was behind this, though he doubted that Blythe had tattled on him. With his nose buried in House's head and his eyes trained on salt and pepper strands, Wilson mumbled, "I dunno."

Maybe the dismal honesty mollified him, or else for some reason, House just hadn't been mad in the first place. He resumed plucking at miniscule bits of lint near Wilson's drawn up knee.

Wilson observed the glitter that lingered in House's eyes, or what he could see of them from this angle. "How stoned are you?"

"Less than before. I still probably shouldn't be trusted with household appliances though."

"Well, that goes for you sober too, so…" Wilson shrugged.

"I only blew up one microwave," House rebutted. "And it was strictly in the interests of medicine."

Wilson smiled. "House, you nuked a bag of plasma because Brown bet you a dollar that it wouldn't explode."

House humphed and leaned more of his weight against Wilson. "I don't recall you trying to stop me."

With a shrug, Wilson replied, "Letting you destroy it was the only way for the oncology lounge to get a new one."

"From _my_ department's budget."

"Oh, quit whining. Half your allotted administrative budget goes to waste anyway, even offset by attorneys' fees."

"Mm." House tried to hide the little smirk that snuck out at that, but Wilson could feel the side of House's face curve where it was mashed against Wilson's chest.

They fell silent again, but the ease of it bled out more quickly this time. Just to break it, Wilson asked, "What did you mean before about her lying?" He didn't really expect an answer.

House turned his head a fraction and seemed to curl in on himself without moving. "It's stupid."

"Then why bother deflecting?" Wilson sucked in a fresh breath and somehow managed to pull House closer. When House drew his right leg up a bit to try to get it more comfortable, Wilson crooked his leg that House could rest the back of his knee over Wilson's calf.

"Because you're nosey?" House's fidgeting picked up and he started flicking lint from his own pants as well. He grew sullen after a moment and muttered, "You'll just laugh."

Wilson craned his neck to catch a glimpse of House's face, but House managed to evade eye contact. How could House think that Wilson would find his sorrows funny? "I promise I won't laugh. I won't even comment on it."

"Phht. Right. That's like a physical impossibility. We should send you to the Human Genome Project to figure out which genes are responsible for buttinskiness. They'll save millions of future children from becoming the bane of other people's existence." House stiffened a little and then squirmed before he grumbled, "I didn't mean that."

Wilson didn't respond other than to hug him tighter, frowning because that hit a nerve he had only recently found out he had. Damn therapist. Maybe in some ways, Wilson could be just as insensitive as House. "It's okay." Wilson's eyebrows elevated and he somehow found just enough ego secreted in him to admit, "You're right."

House lifted his head a few inches, which caused Wilson's chin to dig into his scalp, and then he tucked himself back in against Wilson. Wilson felt him swallow convulsively a few times and wondered if he was about to be sick again, so he toed the trash can further out of their way in case the smell was getting to him. House watched him do it, and then he let out a deep, pent up breath. "I'd rather be what he said I am."

By 'he,' Wilson took him to mean John House. Wilson mentally spluttered at that, and then asked, his words tumbling in a slow mess, "You'd rather be a screw-up and a worthless failure?" He could hear the stunned, pitchy quiver in his own voice.

House tried to minimize that by shrugging it off but he ended up sounding even more sincere with the effort to make light of it. "If I am, then it means he did all that crap because he loved me and wanted to help me." House's voice got quieter, more thready and forced as he spoke. "But if I'm good and I didn't deserve it, then it just means he hated me." By the time he finished the sentence, there was practically no volume at all, just a word scratched into the empty spaces of the darkening office.

Wilson's hand came up to cup House's jaw of its own accord and he held House's head against his heart, speechless.

Wistful and broken, House added, "I want to deserve it, Wilson."

Wilson's chest fluttered under the weight of those words, so lonesome and rending. He couldn't even refute that, couldn't even tell House that he _was_ a good guy, that he _didn't_ deserve to be coerced into believing otherwise. But saying that would merely be insisting that his father never had an ounce of positive feeling for him. Salt in a gaping wound. Wilson couldn't do that; there was simply no good way to respond to that. In spite of himself, Wilson mumbled, "Fuck," in a register three tiers above his normal tone. He had just manipulated Blythe into basically telling House that his father never loved him.

"Wilson?"

Wilson looked down to where his fingers clutched various parts of House's neck and ribcage.

"You're gonna choke me in a second if you don't let up."

Wilson laughed and then gave a forceful hiccup as he loosened his hold. "Sorry."

"No biggie." House pulled away and sat up to crack his back. "Too bad I'm not into that. It might've enticed me to let you cuddle me more often."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You're incorrigible."

"So you keep saying." House kneaded his thigh for a moment, and then looked over his shoulder at Wilson. His face darkened before he blanked his expression all the way. "When will she be here?"

Wilson sucked on both of his lips and ducked his head, peering sheepishly up at House. "Her plane should land by six if it's not delayed."

"Kay." House's gaze wandered without really seeing the dusk-filled room. "I don't want to…I want…no more of this. Whatever happens this time, just make it the end of this. Okay?"

"Okay." Wilson nodded. "I promise, it's the end of it."

"No more trying to fix it," House insisted. "No matter what she says."

Wilson gave him a wry smile. "Don't worry. I've fucked this up so many ways already, it makes my head spin. I'm done."

House grinned, but only for a second. Then he made a point of turning dour and broke eye contact. "So, then. Let's go pick her up and get it over with."

---TBC


	20. Chapter 20

Correction: Because I'm an idiot, in the last chapter, I had Wilson remarking that House's pupils were dilated. I meant constricted, but I'm a moron so I put dilated in there. Sorry!

**Chapter warning: READ THIS!! The middle scene in this chapter will prove to be EXTREMELY disturbing to some of you. If you would like a more detailed warning, please PM me. I mean it. **

Okay then - read on. Thanks for all your comments!

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Wilson headed back to his office to grab his things and then loitered near the elevators, waiting for House to pack his backpack and get on with it. When House left his office and turned left instead of right, Wilson rolled his eyes and slogged after him. He could stand to use the restroom before they spent hours in an airport terminal anyway; he strongly suspected that House would choose to find a quiet corner of the airport and settle the issue there, rather than drag Blythe to dinner or to one of their apartments. House had never really been one to put off a confrontation once he decided on going through with it. Besides, if they stayed at the airport, it would be easier to get rid of Blythe afterwards.

Wilson shouldered his way into the men's room with his briefcase weighing down one arm and his coat slung over the other. He hung his coat up on a hook on the wall and then peered carefully at the floor beneath it before setting his briefcase down. House glanced at him from a urinal and then went back to staring at himself.

"Performance anxiety?" Wilson threw his tie over his shoulder and brushed House's arm as he came to stand at the next urinal. The room fell dead silent and Wilson felt himself grow so self conscious that he couldn't loosen up enough to go. He tilted his head and gazed at House from the corner of his eye, then started to find House staring at him. "What?"

"Nothing." House gave him a strange look and then tried to be unobtrusive about moving down to put a urinal between them.

Wilson pursed his lips. "Oh, please. I've seen your penis before."

"Shut up, Wilson." He stood there fidgeting for a second and then snapped, "I can't pee with you looking at me like that."

Wilson snorted and concentrated on his own business. He waited a while, forced himself not to prance, and then heaved a long sigh. He glanced aside to find House in a similar predicament, scowling at the ceiling with his cane hooked over his arm. "I'm blaming this on you."

House lowered his head to give him a clueless look. "It's not my fault you screwed up the room's mojo."

"Hmph. Jerk." Wilson made a face at nothing in particular and then glanced over his shoulder to the door. It had a lock. A grin infiltrated Wilson's face and he cast a sidelong glance at House, who had gone back to studying the ceiling like it held the solutions to life's greatest mysteries.

House twitched when he heard the lock click, and he gazed curiously at Wilson's hand still covering the latch. Taking in the wicked gleam in Wilson's eyes, one corner of his mouth quivered. Then he smirked. "Dog."

Wilson tried to swagger as he crossed the men's room, but it made House burst out in a fit of laughter. "Oh, shut up," Wilson muttered. He dropped the act and simply walked back, grabbed House by the shoulders, and shoved him hard against the stall partition next to him.

House oomphed as he hit the wall and then couldn't say anything around Wilson's mouth. He tried to, though; Wilson had no idea what he meant to say and he really didn't care at the moment. He took advantage of House's parted lips and slipped his tongue inside, where he teased at the lining of House's cheeks, evading his tongue until House actively kissed back. Wilson leaned forward, his palms pressed to the tips of House's shoulders, fingers digging in around the sockets, and pinned him in place. When House broke off to suck on Wilson's tongue, Wilson let his teeth graze House's lips and then bit the bottom one.

"Mm!" House jerked back, his head thumping hard against the partition, and Wilson released his lip in favor of latching his mouth over the column of House's throat. Stubble raked Wilson's lips, a rough but pleasant burn, and he rubbed his cheek hard against House's on his way to nip behind House's ear. "Uhhuh…Wilson?"

Wilson pulled at a snippet of skin and then mouthed it, suckling lightly enough not to leave a mark. Without disengaging, he hummed, "Hmm?"

House shivered and arched his neck. "Could we maybe – _nng_!" His hips twitched into the hand that Wilson had just cupped him with. With a shuddering hiss, House grabbed at Wilson's wrist and finished, "Maybe sit someplace?"

Wilson grinned into House's neck and then pulled back to look at him. He firmed up his grip around the shapes in House's jeans and allowed a bit of mischief to seep onto his face as House's eyelids fluttered. "Hmm…no. I have a better idea."

One of House's eyebrows arched, but that was all the expression he had a chance to offer. Wilson seized both his arms and dragged him forward, though he had to ignore how his sudden movement startled House into tensing and raising his arms in a defensive gesture. Without waiting for a protest, Wilson slipped behind him so that his own back was pressed to the stall partition, and then he jerked House back against him. House's feet tripped him up and Wilson had to cinch an arm over House's waist to keep him from toppling to the floor when his bad leg buckled.

"Fuck, Wilson." House grumbled something else on top of that and braced his right hand against the tiles beside the nearest urinal.

"Sorry about that." Wilson took House's cane from his extended arm and hooked it over the partition wall instead. "Good now?"

House shifted against him and Wilson tightened his arm to keep him on his feet. When House grunted something unpleasant and adjusted his hand against the wall, Wilson craned his neck to gaze down the length of House's body. He could actually see the muscles in House's thigh quivering.

"God – House." Wilson wrapped his other arm around House's waist too and hoisted him up and to the left. "Why didn't you tell me it hurt that much?"

"I said I wanted to sit," House snapped back, his voice strained. "What the hell else did you need?"

"Okay, my fault. I didn't realize." Wilson staggered upright and away from the partition wall so that House could prop himself against a urinal. Then he recovered House's cane and passed it to him.

Under his breath, House muttered, "Stupid moron."

Heat rose in Wilson's cheeks and he retorted, "Intentionally vague prick."

House straightened and looked at him, startled. Then he blinked at the far wall in an annoyed manner, his eyes opening wider. "Okay, fine. We're even."

"My ass." Wilson straightened his clothes without bothering to try to relieve himself again, and House followed suit. As Wilson zipped his suit pants, he jostled the contents of his pockets, including the bottle of Vicodin that House had entrusted to him. He paused, threw House a surreptitious glance, and then let his arms flop to his sides in exasperation. "Do you need a pill?"

House paused while buckling his belt to treat Wilson to an unusually hard stare. Then he bit his lip and shook his head before he finished tending to his jeans. If he had been anyone else, Wilson would have labeled his body language as resigned, or maybe disappointed. For House, that disguised hurt.

Wilson groaned softly and looked at the floor with a sigh. "If you need it, then you need it. I wasn't trying to – "

"Fuck you too." House hefted his backpack up off the floor and lurched past him. He brutally twisted the lock open, but then he left the door closed and spun back. Wilson winced when House's weight skewed; he barely managed to catch himself on the cane. "Why do you keep doing that? I gave you the pills, you f – " He cut himself off with an angry press of lips, and then asked in a marginally more civil tone, "Do you really think I want to be the pathetic sort of idiot that wallows all day in an opiate stupor?"

Wilson shifted his weight and blinked at anything other than the angry man in front of him, chewing on the inside of his cheek while he tried to think of a response that wouldn't make this worse. He was thankful that House was at least talking, as opposed to yelling or storming out or trying to dump him again. Eventually, Wilson settled on, "I already know you don't want to be that person."

House frowned at him. "Could've fooled me."

Wilson lifted a hand to shield his eyes and then flung his arm back to his side. "What do you want, House? What am I supposed to say? I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, okay?" It probably didn't help his case, considering that his apology sounded more like an accusation.

"You – " House bit his tongue on whatever knee-jerk retort had entered his brain, and then silently fumed for a moment. "I'm gonna make this clear enough that even _you_ can understand for once."

Wilson scoffed and shook his head at the ceiling. He made a have-at-it gesture without bothering to disguise his annoyance.

House stepped closer, confrontation written in every line of his body. In spite of his posture, the shouting came as a surprise. "Don't let me have the damn Vicodin!"

Wilson jumped back, stumbling over his own shoes, and then froze. "What?"

House looked him over as if he found Wilson distasteful, and then snorted as he turned his back on him. "Never mind. You're useless." He wrenched the door open and limped out without another word.

It took Wilson way too many seconds to recover from the shock of that, and then he fumbled to grab all his things before rushing out into the corridor. "House, wait." He probably looked ridiculous half-running down the hall to catch up to House, his briefcase and coat spilling from his arms. "Wait, wait – fucking stop!" He barely managed to wedge himself in the elevator door as it closed. "Quit pressing the damn button."

House glowered at him and made a show of jabbing the door-close button a few more times. "I've reached my stupid asshole quota for the day. Go away."

Wilson shimmied into the elevator, nearly losing an arm in the process. Once he had gotten himself and all of his things inside, he took a breath and glared at House. "Was that really necessary?"

House mumbled, "Go to hell," and fixed his gaze on the descending floor numbers.

Wilson's temper snapped and he pushed House aside so that he could pull the emergency stop. The elevator lurched under their feet, which almost sent House careening to the floor, and then the carriage ground to a halt. An alarm started ringing far away, but Wilson ignored it. He faced House straight on, hands on his hips, and demanded, "How the fuck was I supposed to know you wanted my help controlling your Vicodin intake?"

House gathered his eyebrows together, incredulous. "What are you, blind? I've overdosed twice in the past week. You know I have a problem; I shouldn't have to spell it out for you."

"Are you serious? House, you hit things with your cane every time I try to talk sense into you."

"I didn't ask you to talk!" House replied. "You claim to love me – that means you're supposed to do what's best for me no matter what I say! But you can't because you're too much of a pussy. You'd rather let me eat Vicodin like candy than risk a fight."

"That's not true!" Wilson's voice grew hoarse even though he hadn't been yelling for long. "I want you to stop taking it, but _you_ have to want to stop too."

House shook where he stood and grabbed the rail along the wall for added support. "How many fucking times do I have to say it? I _don't_ want to be an addict, Wilson! All I want is to _not hurt_!"

Wilson could barely speak, he was so incensed, though he had no idea what had gotten him so riled up so quickly. It brought tears to his eyes, he was so furious. "It's not my fault you're incapable of just asking me for help, you stubborn bastard!"

House bared his teeth; it would not have surprised Wilson to hear him growl. "Why did you prescribe for me?"

Wilson balked. "What, are we just going to rehash all of our old arguments now?"

"Yeah, we are – until I actually get the truth from you."

Wilson trembled and dug his fingernails into his own waist. "You harassed me whenever I said no, so I just stopped saying no."

"Liar."

"Fuck you!"

"Why did you prescribe for me?"

"I secretly want you to die a horrible death from acute liver failure because I took out a million dollar life insurance policy on you."

"We can stay here all night," House replied with a maddening degree of calm. "I have nothing better to do."

Wilson felt himself twitching in anger and made a grab for the stop button. House blocked him, so Wilson lunged to the other side only to meet with a cane in the shins. "Ouch! Son of a bitch!"

"Hypocrite."

"Parasite!"

"Why did you prescribe for me?"

Wilson felt the release as it washed through him, vision blurred, his heart pounding so hard he thought he might pass out. "Because you were in pain! I couldn't just watch it! Why the _fuck_ do you think?" A wave of shame accompanied the outburst and the hot tears that streaked down his face, his voice breaking over every other word and catching on choked breaths. His entire body vibrated so hard that he could have bounced across the floor like one of those wind-up tin toys. "You kept saying you wished she'd just let you die – you screamed for days after the infarction! If it ever got like that again…" Wilson tried to control his breathing, but his lungs kept gasping to spite him. "I watch people suffer every day – I know what pain like that does to a person, and I _can't_ watch that happen to you because one of these days, you're just gonna give up and kill yourself, _just_ like them!"

Wilson didn't realize at first that the suffocating feeling was caused by House grabbing him and shoving his face down into the shoulder of his latest vintage rock tee shirt. "Okay, that's enough."

The tenderness suffusing House's voice merely made Wilson lose his last tenuous hold over himself and he tried to push away. His words garbled, Wilson moaned, "I don't wanna be alone either." In spite of that assertion, he continued to paw at House's body and try to twist out of his grasp.

House tightened his hold, apparently unfazed at being used as a snot rag, his form solid and immutable against Wilson. Eventually, Wilson gave up struggling but he kept his arms extended in the air to either side, drawing up white-knuckled fists full of nothing. It was a strange living metaphor for what his life had become, feeling as though House were slipping through his grasp as fluidly as air no matter how hard he fought to hang on.

"I can't," Wilson babbled, blubbering all over the soft House-scented cotton that his face was pressed into. "House, I can't…"

In that gentle, gruff voice that House sometimes used in the bedroom, he said, "_That's_ why I went to Ngyen." His chest expanded as he sucked in a fresh breath; it got caught in his throat though he obviously attempted to hide the fact. "I didn't want to put you through that."

Wilson's breathing dissolved into hiccups and fractured nonsense words, and he finally let his arms encircle House's waist. His grip had to be too tight but he didn't let up.

"It's okay," House crooned. He drew soothing circles on Wilson's back, touching with such ease that he didn't seem like House at all. He had cocked his hip to rest against the hand rail, his cane scattered all over the elevator floor along with Wilson's belongings. "'s'okay."

"Fuck, no it's not," Wilson choked out. It was so hard to keep talking that he sounded just like their squeaky sheep. "I can't make it better. You're gonna disappear."

"If I do, it won't be because of you."

Wilson knew that House was only trying to make him feel better, but the words failed to reassure him. All he could picture were park benches and cold New Jersey winters, and an old familiar face vanishing from a diner window.

He must have said some of that out loud because House stiffened and said, "Wilson, no. Knock it off." He adjusted his grip to more properly hug Wilson to himself. "No. That's not gonna happen."

"Sorry," Wilson mumbled. He inhaled a nose full of House and hot wetness. "Sorry, sorry."

Thankfully, House didn't disabuse him of his automatic apologies. He just stood there, supporting Wilson while he sobbed himself dry in the most unmanly display of hysterics ever witnessed. And yet at the same time, Wilson reveled in the knowledge that House wasn't running away or hiding or leaving Wilson in a dark corner to emote by himself with a room temperature bottle for comfort. That alone made the agony of the moment worth it.

It took a while, but Wilson got himself under control, drawing huge, shuddering breaths and blinking furiously at the patch of tee shirt under his face. He felt drained, shaking through the stillness of the tiny metal room they were ensconced in. At some point, House had started petting Wilson's hair, and while it seemed something that should more properly be done to a girl, he didn't complain. The contact felt nice.

House ducked his head just enough to peck Wilson on the temple, and then the air changed as House injected a bit of mirth into the situation. "Your hair smells like a damn flower shop."

Wilson snorted all over House's shoulder and then gave a shaky, high-pitched laugh. "Your shirt smells like boogers."

Though House laughed, Wilson could hear the discomfort in it. "Yeah. Very Def Leppard."

Wilson smirked and then pulled away because he could feel the fine tremors passing through House's muscles as he fought the urge to squirm away from the prolonged emotional and physical contact. "Okay." Wilson gave a pathetic smile and made a further mess of himself by scrubbing his palm over his cheek and nose. "I'm good now."

House gave him a tolerant smirk. "Yeah, right." He scoured his pockets and found one of the unused tissues that Foreman had provided in his office. "Here. You're an embarrassment to men everywhere."

"Bite me." Wilson dutifully scrubbed his face off and then blew his nose. Then, just to be an ass, he hooked a finger in House's blazer pocket and stuffed the dirty tissue in there.

"Hey!" House held his pocket away and peered into it with a disgusted look. "Okay. You officially suck."

Wilson grinned and bent to retrieve House's cane, which he hooked over House's outstretched arm. Then he recovered all of his own stuff as well and straightened. "House?"

House scowled at him. "Anything else you wanna put in here? A wad of chewing gum, maybe?"

"Thanks."

House blinked, averted his eyes, and then shrugged. He clearly didn't know how to respond to that. "Whatever."

Wilson shook his head in fond exasperation. "I mean it, House."

"Oh." House fidgeted for a second and then pushed the stop button back in. "Whatever."

Wilson patted his shoulder once right after the elevator started moving again. Then he cast House a sidelong glance. "If you tell anyone about this, I'll cover your motorcycle in Saran wrap and Crisco."

House smirked, his tongue stuck in the corner of his mouth. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

The elevator slid to a halt and opened onto the lobby. Wilson exited first because he needed to pass off some files to the receptionist. As such, he nearly got mowed down by a gaggle of security guards as they plowed through the lobby.

House stepped out behind him and glared after the guards, whose footfalls echoed in sharp hollow bursts from the stairwell they tackled at a full run. "What the hell?" House asked no one in particular.

"Psych patient probably took a food cart hostage." Wilson dismissed the spectacle and fumbled in his briefcase for the paperwork he needed. He heard House's pager go off and glanced over his shoulder. "Kiddies calling?"

House made an odd face. "Yeah…" For some reason, he glanced over to the stairwell, and then he looked at Wilson. "It's Foreman."

Wilson leaned closer to read the pager display that House held up for him to see. _911 PTNT DAD GUN_. Wilson's eyes saucered. "Oh my god."

"Yeah." House looked down for a second and then pivoted on his good leg.

"Where are you going?" Wilson dropped his briefcase on the lobby desk and followed him back to the elevators. "House, the guy has a gun! What are you gonna do? Get me to charm it out of his hand?"

"I doubt your Jedi mind tricks will work this time."

"House!" Wilson grabbed his arm and tried to turn him around.

House stood firm and growled, "My patient is up there. Not to mention those morons that work for me." He tapped his foot impatiently against the side of a potted plant.

Wilson gaped at him. "You can't be serious."

House leaned to the right and skewed his body to half face Wilson. He didn't say anything, but his face made it clear that he was dead serious.

The elevator's arrival interrupted their silent standoff and Wilson tread on House's heels as he boarded. If he had been paying attention, he would have realized that House was not bracing himself in preparation for the uneven hitch that that elevator made as it started to rise. As it was, a violent shove in the center of his chest propelled him back out into the lobby, where he stumbled and then tripped over his own feet. He pitched backwards and smacked into the floor hard enough that worshippers in the chapel could have heard the impact, along with his sharp, pained cry. Stunned and immobilized by the fire radiating along his tailbone, Wilson gazed at House past his splayed feet.

House gave him an apologetic look. "Stay." And then the doors closed on him.

* * *

Wilson took the stairs two at a time, cursing his stupid paunch and all the junk food he seemed to eat whenever House was around. Last time House had gotten involved with a gunman at the hospital, Wilson had gone home, washed plaster dust from his hair, and then guzzled half a dusty bottle of whiskey that Amber had left in the back of a kitchen cupboard. The time before that, Wilson had stayed in his office with a plate of freshly crumbled cancer-patient pot, and then he'd eaten half the contents of the fourth floor vending machine. It wasn't like he could stop House from doing insane things, but he'd damn well try.

When he burst out of the stairwell, puffing and light-headed with a twinge in his backside from the fall in the lobby, the first thing Wilson saw was a flock of twittering nurses making a beeline for the nearest office. The door slammed in their wake and Wilson heard the lock click as he rushed past, his eyes scanning the hallway for the familiar color of silvering chestnut hair and a navy button-down. He paid no attention to the ding of the elevator as he passed it by, but before he could get any further, somebody snagged his collar and wrenched him back.

"Wilson, what the hell are you doing?"

Wilson spun to confront House's angry countenance, tinged with a desperate brand of worry that Wilson had never seen in the creases of his face before. "Nothing." Wilson tried to propel him back into the elevator, catching the door before it slid closed, but House shoved off of the wall and somehow flung Wilson to one side. Undeterred, Wilson hastened after him and groped at his sleeve. "Let security handle it."

"Get off." House ripped his arm from Wilson's grasp and kept going, his steps lopsided and labored, barely cushioned by the use of his cane.

From the corner of his eye, Wilson saw Brown skip a step as he passed them, jogging in the opposite direction, but he ignored the guy. Hastings ran by as well, then a few more nurses and random pedestrians, followed lastly by Taub.

"House!" Taub herded his crowd into an exam room and pulled the door shut before coming back to his boss. "Cuddy said he'd have an escort, but he just walked in here."

"Yeah. Guessed that much." House heaved himself forward, all but ignoring Taub's rapid, shorter steps as he kept pace. "What does he want?"

Taub shook his head, his hands held out in a bewildered gesture. "Nothing. Foreman's in there. So is Brenda. They're trying to talk him down."

Wilson scuffled along beside House, frantic to think of way to keep him out of the kid's room. Honestly, though, he couldn't say that if he were in House's shoes, he would behave any differently. Patients had to come first, and coworkers ranked at a very close second. Nonetheless, Wilson said, "There's nothing you can do that somebody else isn't already doing."

House paused mid-stride so that he could stick his nose in Wilson's face as he hissed, "I can relate." Then he was off again, and Wilson had to shake himself free of his momentary paralysis to follow.

They came up on the nurse's station, which a large group of patients and hospital staff were huddling behind, and House stopped to observe. Wilson peered past House's shoulder; he could see Foreman in the doorway of the kid's room with his hands raised to display his cooperation, leaning forward just a tad as he carried on an intent and evidently one-sided conversation with some other occupant of the room. The blinds were drawn, so that was all Wilson could see.

House angled himself to address Taub without taking his eyes from the patient's room. "Get out of here." He pointed flippantly at all of the people sheltered by the nurse's desk. "And take them with you. They shouldn't still be here."

Wilson stared at the back of House's neck. His voice sharpened to a pinpoint of fear for whatever House had planned inside of the bare minute that it had taken them to get here. "What are you gonna do?"

House merely peered at him for a second, silent, and then he moved Taub to one side with a cane-prod to his belly. He reiterated his earlier instruction by snapping, "Go." And then he headed for the patient's room. Wilson panted in an adrenaline-fueled daze, then fortified himself with a deep breath and shadowed him. The patient had to come first.

Foreman noticed them coming and made a face, though he seemed relieved to see even the glimmer of hope that they represented. Wilson heard Foreman's voice, naturally too haughty to be of much use in a situation like this. "Doctor House is here. You want to talk to him?"

"No, I want you to get away from my son!"

Wilson recognized the voice of the boy's father, though he was shocked at the controlled quality of it. There should be something more fragile in the tone of a desperate man wielding a gun in a hospital; the calm sent chills tripping up Wilson's spine to end in a prickle at the nape of his neck. He mouthed a warning to House to be careful, too soft for House to hear as he thumped up to the sliding door, purposefully loud enough for the dad to tell where he was. It wouldn't do to startle the guy.

House grasped the edge of the door frame with his left hand and popped his head into the room. "Hey there, Mister Lyamone." The false cheer in his voice made Wilson cringe, though he wasn't surprised to find that House knew the guy's name after all. "Do we have demands, or are you just angling for an insanity defense and some free air time?"

A bit of shuffling ensued, and Mister Lyamone appeared from behind the blinds. "You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you."

House made a face as he considered this, and then shook his head with an infuriatingly smug grin. "Sorry, but I happen to think that drugs are bad."

Foreman gave him a warning look. "House."

"Relax." House let go of the door frame and actually poked Lyamone in the arm to get him to move far enough aside that House could slip into the room. Wilson gawped. "Hey, Brenda." House waved in the direction of the bed and Wilson sidled close enough to catch sight of Brenda shielding the kid where he huddled in a ball beside his pillow. "What do you say we switch off, huh? I'm bored, you're supposed to be off shift…" House rolled his eyes and flapped a hand at waist level. "Damn bureaucracy making you work overtime. They're not gonna pay you for it, you know. Budget crunch and all." He smiled in Lyamone's direction. "That cool with you?"

Lyamone stared at him. "Are you nuts?"

"Yeah." House frowned at him. "That a problem for you?" When he got no response, House hmphed and limped up to take Brenda's place. As he ushered her out of the way, he snarked, "Go home." And then he sat on the edge of the bed and looked for all the world like he was lounging around, the little boy curled up safe behind him. Wilson half expected him to pull out his GameBoy and ignore the gunman in front of him. "See?" House chirped. "All better." He planted his cane on the floor near his right foot and crossed his hands over the head, relaxed but for the firm placement of his bad leg. He was playing lame duck. Too bad he actually _was_ lame.

Wilson squeezed Brenda's arm as she darted out with a bewildered expression on her face, and then he crept farther into the room. Foreman flicked him a questioning look, and Wilson hooked his thumb toward the door, silently telling him to get out as well. Lyamone alternated mistrusting glances between the three men, but he didn't hinder Foreman's exit. Apparently, the guy wasn't after hostages; he just wanted his son. For what, Wilson didn't know. Certainly nothing good.

"So." House slouched down and rested his chin on top of his folded hands. It was a very endearing pose, and Wilson wondered what the hell he was up to. "What _are_ we doing, anyway? Cuz I've sorta got a taste for something greasy and cheesy, and if this is gonna take a while, I'd just as soon order a pizza or something." He perked up and straightened. "I'll share. Guy with the gun gets to pick the second topping."

Wilson gawped at him, and then exchanged a glance with a befuddled Lyamone. He shrugged just because he didn't know how else to contribute, and Lyamone twitched in irritation. "Why can't you people just get out?"

One side of House's mouth quirked up, and he lifted his shoulders. "I'm bored. You're way too interesting to just leave here."

Lyamone jittered in place and Wilson winced as he saw the guy tighten his finger over the trigger. In the hopes of calming him down, Wilson offered, "We're worried about your son." On an impulse, he added, "He needs psychiatric treatment, just like you wanted."

"I'm not crazy, you stupid twink." Lyamone made a rude gesture with his gun hand and Wilson couldn't help but flinch. "I just want what's mine." His entire demeanor hardened as he faced House. "So move."

"Why?" House replied. "Got big plans?" He had resumed his beguiling pose, wide blue eyes hovering over the vague, disinterested curve of his mouth, chin digging into his knuckles. "Hey. You never did tell me what the slang is for scoring meth."

Lyamone stared at him. "What?!"

"I like to learn things." House smiled such that Wilson actually felt the urge to grin too, like House was some cute little boy carrying on a conversation with a harmless stranger at the park. He should have been sitting on a swing with a pair of short little legs carelessly scissoring the air. It was uncanny.

Unfortunately, Lyamone wasn't amused. He moved so fast that Wilson flung himself back even though Lyamone was headed away from him. House tensed in an instant and threw his arms out to cover any stray parts of the boy balled up in his shadow. House's voice barely shook when he snarked, "Watch where you're pointing that thing." But Wilson heard the tremble loud and clear.

"Mister Lyamone!" Wilson started forward without thinking, cognizant only of a loaded gun about to be stuffed in House's face.

"Move!" Lyamone jabbed the end of the gun against House's chest and Wilson froze at the end of the bed, close enough to brush his fingers over Lyamone's shoulder, should he dare to try.

House barely reacted to the weapon jammed against his solar plexus, other than to swallow. "Why should I?"

"House, don't," Wilson begged. He didn't need to add the part about not riling Lyamone up, not taunting him, not making it worse.

Lyamone glanced back at Wilson's face but apparently saw nothing in him to prompt concern. He faced House again, his outstretched arm shaking from shoulder to gun, and hissed, "Do you have any idea what they'll do to him when they find out he talked to the cops? Or what they'll do to _me_ for having a _stupid_ fucking blabbermouth kid?"

One of House's eyebrows raised in irritation. "He didn't talk to the cops. _I _did."

"He talked to _you_! It's the same thing."

House was shaking his head even before Lyamone finished. "No, he didn't. You had phosphorus reaction stains all over your fingers. He didn't tattle on you."

Wilson glanced at the arm that House had curled behind himself; he had too tight a grip on one of the kid's ankles and had bent the boy into a more firmly tucked ball to keep him as shielded as possible. Wilson straightened and drew his head back to align his neck with his spine, as if dignified posture could translate to his emotional state. "Mister Lyamone, just think about this for a minute." He wished he could remember the guy's first name, but in retrospect, perhaps familiarity would sound too condescending.

"Wilson, stay out of this."

Wilson ignored House and started to say something more, but Lyamone had no eyes for Wilson; it was like no one occupied the space behind him. "Don't you get it? You called them! You sent them to my home!" Lyamone stepped closer to House so that he could hold the gun steady.

A patch of House's shirt pulled back in taut creases over his ribs, and it took Wilson a moment to notice the little white fingers snagged like twigs over a fold of House's button down near his waist. House scoffed and said, "So what? They found a bunch of drug paraphernalia. Danny has nothing to do with it."

Wilson started and mouthed the name over his own clumsy lips. Danny? The kid's name was Danny? He felt his breathing falter and his eyes stuttered to regard the gun jabbed against House's sternum. When he tried to catch House's gaze, he couldn't risk holding it and had to look away.

"You just don't get it," Lyamone snapped. "It's _over_, you son of a bitch."

"Not for him." House tugged the boy farther out of Lyamone's line of sight.

"Not for him?" Lyamone tilted his head. Wilson couldn't see his expression from this angle; what he mistook for puzzlement or incredulity turned out to be rage in its purest form. "Not for him?"

Possession, Wilson thought. Abusive personality, a need to control, to have power down to the smallest detail…the _if I go down, everyone I own goes with me _mentality.

Lyamone shoved the gun harder into House's chest and got up in his face to yell, "He's _mine_! _I_ get to say when it's over for him!"

House flinched, a full-fledged miniature convulsion that shied him back to crush the boy into the wall at his back. Wilson jumped too, but not so much that he missed the moment of shock that passed in a paroxysm over House's face. House obviously meant to say something in return but it didn't make its way out for once; he ended up with a gurgle for a response, owlish azure eyes unmoving in their sockets. And then he looked to Wilson.

Lyamone whirled to make sure that Wilson wasn't doing anything to threaten him, and then his gaze darkened. Up until then, there had been little outside of menace in the man's face and voice. Now, there were racing calculations, a firm sizing up of the altered situation. Wilson didn't think that the man had counted on any hindrance, or that he had planned on harming anyone aside from perhaps his son. Damn do-gooding doctors, getting in his way.

Wilson backed off a step, but before he knew it, Lyamone was going after _him_. The bed rail struck Wilson's hip as he scrambled back, Lyamone pursuing him across the small room, and then a crash cart got in Wilson's way. He nearly tripped before he managed to catch himself only slightly off balance, a twinge cracking like a whip up the lower half of his spine from his bruised and now contorted tailbone. The clatter of medical equipment all over the floor reverberated in his marrow with a noticeably absolute quality, and still, Lyamone advanced until Wilson had bent himself half backwards over the cart, cringing with is face thrown aside, his expensive French shoes casting a ridiculous high-pitched squeak through the air as they slid to hold his slanted weight, and the frigid barrel of the gun found a home against his temple.

"Oh, shit." Wilson's voice pitched and quaked over draughts of oxygen and threads of a surreal, detached panic.

Lyamone shoved the gun harder into Wilson's head, forcing him to bend at an ever more awkward angle, and bellowed at House, "Give me my son!"

Wilson peeled his eyes open in time to see House's resolve falter. "No," Wilson warned, a picture-perfect dramatic cliché. "Don't do it, House."

Though hesitant, House complied, his hand moving to encase the one at his waist, tapered fingers huge in comparison to the pale breakable ones that he grasped. All the signature cockiness that Wilson secretly loved in him bled off, edged out by a very present danger. Present to House, anyway; Wilson stood there and shook, but he didn't feel like the moment belonged to him.

"Now!" Lyamone screamed. "I want my _fucking_ traitor son!"

House licked his lips and braced himself to stand. "We're leaving now." The boy gathered his limbs in as House moved and Wilson saw stick-like legs descend behind House to find the floor.

Lyamone gave an ugly laugh. "You think I won't kill him?" The gun moved down to caress Wilson's cheek and press in, and then he pulled the hammer back. "I've got nothing left to lose."

Wilson couldn't stop the sharp, garbled sound that bubbled in his throat, but he choked his voice out over it. "It's okay. House, it's okay."

"I wouldn't put anything past you," House remarked. He sounded casual, unconcerned, but Wilson could read past that to everything that he couldn't say here, in front of witnesses. Wilson cracked his eyes back open to peer at House through narrow horizontal slits. House shuffled toward the door, towing Danny behind him, safely blocked by a tower of long legs, one of which could barely support him. He still held his cane, but not for support; it was crossed over his chest, defensive with an implied intent. "We're still leaving," House added unnecesarily. Danny's heart leads trailed behind them, still stuck to his tiny chest beneath the flimsy hospital gown.

Lyamone snarled something incoherent and frustrated, and twisted to grab Wilson by the scruff at the back of his neck with his free hand. He wrenched Wilson forward and propelled him to arm's length so that House could get a clear view of him, and then a resounding crack assaulted Wilson's ear drums. The water ewer exploded on the opposite wall right before Wilson felt the gun barrel jab into the back of his neck. It singed his skin and he jerked on a reflex, but Lyamone hauled him back. Across the chasm of four feet of hospital room, House froze.

"You ever watch somebody get shot?" Lyamone asked. He sounded deathly calm, too cold, and it yanked Wilson's guts up into his throat. "This is a forty-five," he went on, taunting House, shaking Wilson for emphasis. "I pull the trigger, and it's all good from my side. From _yours_, though…" The wicked grin came out in his tone. "You'll get to watch his throat explode just like that jar over there. Spray his blood all over you…bits of skin…blood vessels bursting in the whites of his eyes. You might even catch that last glimpse of his face right before he dies, watching you."

"House, get out. It's okay." Wilson couldn't possibly keep his voice from falling apart on him, and he didn't even try. "It's okay."

"_Give him to me!_"

The force of Lyamone's voice rocked Wilson too and he winced. "Go!" He could see House too clearly in front of him, unable to decide which was more important to him: the moral code of his father which required him to save the innocent life of the stranger-child clutching his shirt, or Wilson. So Wilson made the decision for him. "House, I'd never forgive you." Wilson was, after all, always trying in his own screwed up way to protect him.

Lyamone saw it when House heeded Wilson's threat, and he didn't give anyone time to react. He flung Wilson off to one side, back into the crash cart, which finally proved Wilson's undoing. Wilson rebounded off a sharp corner and sprawled all over the ground, exacerbating the bruising from his earlier fall. A yelp tore itself from his throat as he collided with linoleum, and then he couldn't breath for the stark pain of it, billowing in waves all throughout his lower back and down into the upper reaches of his buttocks. He wheezed through a wet, swirled glimmer in his vision, aware of shouting and the shriek of sneakers skidding across the hospital floor past his feet.

Wilson rolled onto his stomach and twisted around in time to see House smack into the floor and then swipe his cane to snag at Lyamone's foot before he could take his clear shot at the boy. Lyamone stumbled and then aimed a kick at whatever part of House happened to be in his way, catching him in the soft flesh between the ribs and the hip bone. Wilson scrambled for purchase against the floor as House grunted and curled. This wasn't supposed to happen, not to people he knew, not right in front of him, no.

Wilson couldn't tell where the boy had gotten to until his palm slipped and sent him chin first back to the floor. His teeth clacked over a slip of his tongue and he blew the pained cry out his nose. Bare little feet showed up in his periphery and Wilson peered under the bed; Danny had run back into the corner of the room and then wriggled as far under the bed as he could get with wheels and cross supports in the way. He was nine years old, hardly a baby anymore, but twisted up in the gloom like that, he looked so small.

Lyamone was spitting mad, snarling cuss words and horrid threats as he seized one of those bony ankles to drag Danny from his hiding place, and Wilson latched onto the edge of the crash cart to help pull himself up. House was already moving again, not standing yet, but he grabbed Lyamone's belt to yank him off balance and then grappled for the gun while using the man's body as a tool to gain his feet. Wilson ran to the other side of the bed to pry Danny out and get him away from there, but Lymone still had a firm hold on the kid's foot. Wilson shoved his torso past the underbelly of the bed, skimming eye contact with Danny as he strained to pinch and dig his fingers into Lyamone's hand to loose him. It was the first time that Wilson had ever wished that he adhered to less obsessive grooming rituals; he wanted to gouge deeper than his neatly trimmed nails allowed. As his gaze shifted in search of some aid, maybe a scalpel to slice the guy's fingers off with, he couldn't escape noticing that Danny had green eyes.

A clatter of wood drew Wilson's attention to the other side of the bed; House trampled his own cane as he pivoted to throw Lyamone toward the door, and the gun went off. House merely swore and found something to throw, and then he pitched the IV stand like a javelin. Lyamone ducked against the wall and then used it to push off of in an obvious attempt to tackle House. They fell against the bed, jarring Wilson and Danny, and then House damn near shrieked. Tangled around the bed wheels, Danny clamped his hands over his ears, and Wilson yanked himself free in time to look over the bed and watch House crumple over his useless bad leg.

Lyamone ducked down to root out his boy and Wilson pitched himself to his feet. He intended to round the bed and resume the fight but House beat him to it; he had recovered his cane, and he swung it like a t-ball bat at Lyamone's head when he bent over. The cane broke in two, bottom half spinning in the air; it had probably cracked earlier in the fight, seeing as how the impact didn't daze Lyamone in the slightest. On the contrary, it served to piss him off more and he delivered a vicious kick to House's right side.

All of this covered the span of perhaps thirty seconds. As House folded in half on the floor, too breathless to cry out, Lyamone dug under the bed and hauled Danny out into the harsh fluorescent light. Wilson was still on the other side, rounding the tray table, running on mindless gumption. Movement on the floor betrayed House still in the game, and Wilson watched him seize Lyamone's pant leg, then his belt, pulling himself upright along Lyamone's body on his way to make a grab for the gun. Wilson reached for the discarded IV pole on his way around the bed and hefted it to swing at his first opportunity. Lyamone ignored both doctors, even the one dangling off his waist, his fist clenched around a handful of heart leads and starched hospital gown. Danny's spindly legs scissored the air as his dad picked him full up off the ground and slammed him down against the bed in a billow of sheets.

Wilson didn't even hear the shot. All he saw was a starburst of red, like a crimson water balloon bursting in zero-g. A fine mist hung in the air, following the spatters. He saw House flinch hard and fling his face away to catch streaks across the side and back of his head, his face scrunched around clenched eyelids. House was hanging off the bed rail by his arm pit, both hands clenched over the plastic, and when he blinked his eyes open, Wilson wasn't sure how to interpret the naked look in them. House turned back to the bed without seeming to process what had just happened, and he tucked his chin to examine the mess sprayed across the sheets, the pillow, the wall…

Wilson only realized that he had frozen when Lyamone turned around and noticed him standing there with an IV pole raised as a pitiful weapon. Behind Lyamone, House stumbled to his feet and grabbed the sheets balled up at the end of the bed. Everything passed in slow motion. Wilson's ears rushed and rang like the breath of a seashell, tinnitus blending with the scream of a flatlined montitor, and House was pooling blankets around the mush oozing from a dead boy's pulverized skull. Each blink of Wilson's eyelids felt like a thunderclap in a vacuum, deafening in the perfect silence as Lyamone stuck the gun to his own temple.

Wilson tensed in disbelief, choked with adrenaline and convinced that Lyamone was only kidding with the suicidal gesture. Another gunshot ripped through the tatters of stifled air and Wilson flinched, expecting to feel it. A cacophony of creaking glass tore his eyes to the glass wall of the hospital room as it spiderwebbed over the slumping form of a meth dealer. The muffled thump of dead weight striking linoleum marked an end to the unnatural quiet suspended between Wilson's ears. He heard words. It turned out he was praying under his breath.

Pandemonium had taken hold out in the corridor. The rubber neckers hiding at the nurse's station spilled out like ants in a flood and trickled away into the depths of long hallways and darkened rooms. Security guards ran up and then stopped themselves at the blasted window frame with mouths agape, paling as Wilson watched. Off on the other side of the room, House was snuggling blankets up around Danny's head to soak up the blood and help his skull retain some semblance of shape, but the boy was dead. A half dozen monitors shrieked that fact over the din of shock that filtered through from the gawkers in the hallway.

When House started chest compressions, so desperate to put things back to rights that he used force enough to crack the child's breastbone, Wilson took a few faltering steps toward him. House looked up, eyes wild, and fixated on him, pleading. "Wilson, help."

Wilson croaked something, but it didn't matter what; House had already turned back to the boy, to performing CPR on a mangled child with no face left to speak of. There was blood everywhere, staining half the bed so dark that it looked like hot mulberry wax from a penny-scented candle. People were coming, police radios emitting indignant squawks from the elevator doors a hundred feet away. Wilson turned to watch them run up and then go perfectly still in front of the webbed safety glass to merely stare at House going about his frantic, pointless efforts.

"Doctor Wilson!"

Wilson glanced sluggishly aside to find Foreman in the room with him, harried and spooked. "Foreman…" His voice needed oil, like Tin Man's rusted joints.

House threw a look over his shoulder when he heard words. "We need an OR."

Foreman's face drew in on itself as he took in the scene. "House…"

"I can fix him, it's okay." House went back to sopping up blood with a sheet that already dripped trails of it onto the floor. "He just needs surgery. The MRI confirmed it - he'll be fine."

"God." Foreman tossed Wilson a look that basically lambasted him for just standing there, and then strode up to House. His movements turned gentle, though, after he started removing bits of sheet from House's hand. "That's enough, House. Call time of death."

House wrenched the sheet back and snarled, "I can cure him!"

"House, he's dead." Foreman grabbed for his hands this time and tried to pull him away.

"No!" House tore his hands free and seized an intubation kit from the drawer next to him. "I diagnosed him, he'll be fine," he muttered.

Foreman attempted to take the kit from him and ended up wrestling over possession of the bag. "Stop – House, he's dead!"

House gave a desolate moan, his fingers indelibly clenched around the parts of the kit that Foreman had not yet pried away from him, and Wilson finally shook himself into motion. "House, it's okay. Let the others handle it." Wilson hooked his hand around House's forearm, but that only made him struggle harder. Wilson had to peel House's fingers off the bed rail, and then he and Foreman dragged House backwards over detritus and smears of dark, congealing liquid. House nearly squirmed free as they reached the doorway and Wilson had to wedge his shoulder against House's chest to shove him out and break his grip on the door frame.

The three of them lurched a few feet down the hallway, House thrashing and clawing at the arms holding him back. He had not yet relinquished the intubation kit. Random people emerged to witness the spectacle, at first displaying that morbid glee that comes from catching a glimpse of gore on an ordinary day. Those faces lost their dark curiosity at the way House carried on. Eventually, House's struggling upset their collective balance and the three of them ended up in a heap on the floor next to a bench. House went still as he settled in and allowed Wilson to work the intubation kit from his trembling, white-knuckled grasp, the blood on his hands leaving his skin slick and rusty.

After Wilson cast the kit aside, he leaned back against the wall and stared blankly at the opposite side of the corridor. House panted lightly beside him, his hands in the same place that Wilson had left them in his lap after acquiring the kit. Some minutes passed, people moving around them with morbidly curious glances, and then House said, "I forgot the PET scan." His entire affect was flat, shell-shocked.

Wilson heaved a sigh but he couldn't find it in himself to think up a comeback, smartassed or otherwise.

House looked down to pick at his fingers and mumbled, "It's okay." It was like Wilson hadn't reassured him of that, so he had to say it himself.

Wilson just sat there, too numb to play the perfect support system anymore. If House noticed, it didn't show; he just kept picking at the dark spots staining his clothes.

* * *

Where had Foreman gone? Wilson remembered him saying something about a triage kit, and he hadn't been back since. It couldn't have been more than a minute ago. He glanced at House sitting slumped beside him, still panting just a foot or so away, and then directed his gaze forward again. His eyes slid shut. So much blood. When a hand touched his arm, he shrugged it off and scooted closer to the bench so that he could lean his head over. A few seconds later, the hand was back. He jerked away and knocked his shoulder against the bench but whoever it was continued pawing at him, plaintive tugs on his suit jacket. He pushed them away without thinking.

It didn't work; hands kept on pulling and Wilson twisted to get them off, losing his suit jacket in the process. A final shove ended the struggle; Wilson sat unbothered again, one arm thrown up on the bench and his temple resting in the curve of his elbow. Somebody hiccupped beside him and Wilson heard plastic rustling against cloth, then a clack and scatter of some sort before their little haven of the corridor quieted again. He blinked, only then realizing that his eyes were open again, blankly trained on the rough scotch-guarded cushion of the bench near his nose. He could still smell pennies.

Wilson lifted his head and curled his fingernails in under his face so that he could look at them. He had clawed Lyamone pretty good; there were pink and white skin particles under his nails. A squeak of a sneaker on linoleum drew his gaze over to House again. How had he gotten Wilson's suit jacket? He was getting blood all over it. "You're getting blood all over it."

House ignored him and drew it closer to his chest with one hand. The laryngoscope was clutched in the other, tubing and an air bag on the floor next to him along with the plastic packaging and the little ring to seal the bag to the tube nozzle. House stared at his own left knee, which he had drawn up close to his body, slouched so that his leg rested at the same height as his forehead. House had such long legs; it looked wrong.

"House." Wilson reached over and snatched the arm of his suit jacket to yank it from House's grasp, but House wouldn't give it up. "You're gonna ruin it," Wilson snapped, pulling harder. House wrenched the expensive cloth from Wilson's fingers and slid far enough away that Wilson couldn't reach him anymore without moving. It was too much effort right now, so Wilson mumbled, "Fine. I'll get a new one," and let it be.

Wilson watched House's eyes fall to the jacket, and then House leaned forward far enough to put it on over his own blazer; it was too wide and short in the arms, and House's torso was too long for it, not to mention how the fourth layer of clothing made the suit jacket fit tightly enough that it looked ridiculous. When House hugged it over himself, Wilson looked away to press his forehead into the side of the bench. Of course – House was cold. That made sense.

"Doctor Wilson?"

Wilson looked up into Nurse Brenda's watery eyes and asked, "Are you okay?"

Brenda nodded, though a faint line creased her forehead, like he was an idiot for asking that. "I'm fine. What about you?"

"Foreman's getting a triage kit," Wilson replied. He put his head down again and added, "House is getting blood all over the place; I'll clean it up later." He felt her touch his arm so he moved it out from under her hand and went back to floating in the numb place with his eyes closed.

Brenda padded softly to the right and said House's name. She probably knelt over there but Wilson wasn't looking, so he didn't know for sure. "Doctor House, are you hurt?"

"I'm okay," House said. He sounded flat, like that two-dimensional world in _A Wrinkle In Time_.

Brenda persisted. "Is any of this blood yours?"

Maybe House shrugged or shook his head; he certainly didn't say anything.

"Doctor House – "

"Don't."

Sneakers made a few peeps against the floor and Wilson opened his eyes to find that House had scooted back in his direction. Brenda reached for the laryngoscope as Wilson watched; it was probably her second attempt to take it from him. That just wasn't right; House needed to breathe too. "Leave him alone," Wilson said.

Brenda glanced at Wilson and sat back on her haunches, one hand resting on House's drawn-up left knee for balance. Where did she get off, touching him? Brenda told Wilson, "I need to see how badly he's hurt."

"I'm fine," House insisted.

Brenda countered, "You're bleeding."

House gave a dismissive shrug and repeated, "I'm fine."

"Here." Foreman appeared in the hallway and jogged over to them with an EMS bag. He dropped the bag next to House's extended right foot and crouched down beside him. "Chase is coming too."

When Foreman reached for House's arm, House turned the upper half of his body away and growled, "I'm _fine_!"

Foreman ignored him and glanced at Brenda. "Help me get the jacket off."

The ensuing struggle should have been a comedy routine. House wouldn't let them take the laryngoscope from him, so even after they managed to force Wilson's suit jacket off of him, they had to leave it dangling from his right wrist. House gathered the freshly bloodstained jacket up in his lap and ducked his head into it, his fist around the laryngoscope trapped in folds of bunched and rumpled fabric. He stilled after that, however, so Foreman was able to cut away the right sleeves of his blazer and button down. House wouldn't uncurl enough to allow them to get the other garments off too.

Wilson blinked and made the droll declaration, "You got shot."

Foreman shook his head as he applied antiseptic to House's bicep. "It looks like it only grazed him. The gash is pretty deep, though." He discarded the steri-wipes in favor of lidocaine and a suture kit. "I'll put in a few stitches for now; the bullet cauterized it for the most part."

Wilson merely watched as Foreman worked over some thread, but he didn't like the way Brenda more or less petted House's hair the whole time. If that were Wilson sitting there with some nurse touching him like that, House would throw a fit. He should do something about that, but he didn't feel like bothering. House hardly noticed anyway; his eyes blinked in shuttered blue intervals without moving from the tip of his knee, strangely intent on inhaling Wilson's suit jacket. His face bore an odd look of concentration, and Brenda's fingers were acquiring a rusty tinge from carding through the blood speckles in his hair.

Actually, there was blood all over the place. Wilson sat up straighter as he registered the smears left behind on House's arm from bleeding against his shirt. There were spatters along the left side of his face too, a few of them streaked in lines that had dripped down to tangle in his stubbled cheeks. House's blazer and button down were too dark for any stains to show but Wilson had no doubt that they were covered in it as well; he could see patches shining in the fluorescent light of the hallway. It looked like House had dipped his hands in mulberry-flavored chocolate, and he had rubbed handprints all over Wilson's soft gray suit jacket. Another smear colored House's upper lip where he must have wiped at his nose, and one glaring splotch marked his forehead where, presumably, he had dug his knuckles in at some point.

Wilson glanced at himself, but aside from House's paw prints all over his white dress shirt, he looked as pristine as always. Maybe his clothes bore a few extra wrinkles, and his tailbone was killing him, but aside from that, he had come through unscathed. He looked at House again and abruptly smacked Brenda's hand away. House flinched at the sound of impacting flesh but yielded to Wilson's hand as it snaked around the back of his neck. He didn't raise his head, though he muttered, "I'm fine, Wilson."

"I know." Wilson pulled at House's neck anyway until House turned a little bit toward him and dropped his forehead to Wilson's shoulder. House sighed and quaked for a second, and then his limbs gave themselves over to a fine shiver. They were barely touching – one hand, the tip of a shoulder, and House's forehead – but House wouldn't give Wilson anything else; he seemed perfectly satisfied to have Wilson's suit jacket in his possession while Foreman kept working on his arm.

People milled all about by now: law enforcement and hospital personnel, patients being moved to other wings and floors, security guards huddling off to one side… Wilson heard an elevator ding and then Chase showed up to gape for a second before joining Foreman on the floor. He said something to Brenda as Foreman finished stitching House's arm, and Brenda disappeared for a minute. When she came back, she passed Chase a basin of water and a washcloth, and then she left them all alone. Chase started scrubbing the blood off of House's face while Foreman applied a dressing and taped it in place.

Once a lull overtook the edgy bustle of the hallway, Chase demanded, "What in bloody hell happened?" He was trying to clean House's hands off now, but since House wouldn't part with anything in his grasp, Chase could only wipe off the backs of his fingers and a few other exposed patches of skin on one hand.

Wilson shook his head and tried to draw a deep breath. He didn't want to talk about it.

"House?" Foreman leaned over to try to catch House's eye. "Where are your pills?"

Chase frowned and patted House's blazer pockets. Stunned, he announced, "They're not here."

"I've got them." Wilson twisted until he could shove his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a handful of plastic splinters and chunks, amidst which two pills stood out against his palm. When he hit the floor, he must have landed on the bottle; his cell phone was probably a goner too. Wilson passed the entire mess of plastic and Vicodin to Chase and settled back again. House had grabbed Wilson's pant leg when he moved, probably to keep him from leaving. Since Wilson hadn't felt it anyway, he didn't object to the fresh red fingerprints.

Chase picked out the two pills and held them in front of House. When he spoke, he enunciated clearly enough for a child to understand. "House, take these."

House glanced away from Wilson's shoulder long enough to identify the objects in Chase's palm, and then he shut back down.

"House." Chase laid the tips of his fingers on House's arm to regain his attention. "You need your medication. Come on."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Wilson snapped. He tightened his fingers over the back of House's neck when he cringed. "If he doesn't want them, leave him alone."

Foreman stepped in then to stop the situation from escalating. "It's okay. We'll just save them for a little while."

"Excuse me."

All four of them started to find two police officers standing nearby. Foreman pushed himself to his feet as Chase pocketed the pills, and nodded to them. "What can we do for you?"

The taller one gestured to his partner and then himself. "Lieutenant Kobalis and Sergeant Smith. We're taking witness statements. I understand one of you is Doctor House? The, um…deceased child's doctor?"

"Smith? Seriously?" House peered up at the officers with a dubious expression. "What, were all the cool names used up by the time your grandpappy made it to Ellis Island?"

Smith nodded with practiced stoicism. "You're Doctor House, then. I'm guessing 'Condo' was already taken."

House smirked, but it looked wrong underneath stray flecks of rust and a blossoming bruise near the hinge of his jawbone. "I was hoping for 'Bungalow' myself."

Wilson stared at House for a second, and then cleared his throat. House jumped at the sound and fixated on Wilson's suit jacket again.

Officer Smith's severe frown gave way to something softer at that point. He probably figured that House was using mockery as a defense mechanism, appropriate or not. "I understand that you and a Doctor Wilson were in the room when the incident occurred?"

Wilson tore his troubled gaze from House's imploding form and introduced himself. "What can we do to help?"

It took a while, but they all provided statements after a fashion, even Chase, who had been in the surgical lounge when it happened. It worried Wilson to hear how House's answers got shorter and more hoarse the longer they talked; less and less snark suffused his responses until he just stopped talking altogether. This didn't seem to surprise the officers and they passed Wilson their cards, telling him to call at a more convenient time so that they could go over his and House's statements in more detail. After taking down names and contact information and checking their ID's – Wilson had to dig House's out for him – the officers rejoined their comrades closer to the carnage on the other side of the cracked glass wall. Somebody was digging a slug from the paneling of the nurse's station, and on top of garish police tape, there were tripods with strings and cameras in the doorway of the hospital room.

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut long enough to stave off a few throbs of impending migraine, and then found something less disturbing to look at. He settled on an office door far away to his left. Evidence of tragic things continued on in a steady audio track behind him. People should play _that_ on their porches at Halloween. He found himself kneading around House's cervical vertebrae and turned to regard him. House looked like an empty whiteboard, still tangled up in Wilson's suit jacket, and he was shocky. The skin under Wilson's hand had turned clammy and he could feel House's pulse fluttering in tatters near the pads of his fingers.

"Hey." Wilson touched House's cheek with a single finger. "Can I have the laryngoscope?"

House lifted tired eyes halfway to Wilson's face and then shrugged. When Wilson peeled a few folds of gray fabric away from his hand, House let him take the laryngoscope and then slip the suit jacket from his wrist. Wilson thought about taking the jacket back too, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. House was quiet for now and Wilson didn't want to risk upsetting that, however disconcerting it was to watch House clutch at a piece of clothing instead of at him.

It seemed like they sat there forever. Wilson observed Taub giving a statement behind the nurse's station, and Thirteen lingered near the elevators where she could pretend not to be keeping an eye on Foreman. Kutner was nowhere to be seen. A few police officers came over to ask Wilson and Foreman follow-up questions or to inquire as to the whereabouts of the bathroom. The whole time, House kept getting quieter, which was a real feat considering that he didn't say a word to begin with. Wilson wondered when Cuddy would get here since she never wandered far from her beloved hospital.

Eventually, hospital employees filled in the gaps of empty space in the hallway, and Wilson finally noticed all the passersby stealing curious glances at him and House. Wilson glared at a few of the bolder types, challenging them to utter a single word about the half-embrace that he had caught House up in. He even snapped, "What?" at one of his own nurses so that she pursed her lips and hurried away. As he watched her retreat, Wilson made a mental note to consider having her transferred to some other department so that he wouldn't have to look at her anymore.

Cuddy's arrival sent the remaining rubber-neckers scurrying back to their proper jobs, and Wilson mentally cringed as she approached exuding that affronted aura that she wore whenever something untoward happened on her turf. He expected her to be angry and concerned, perhaps to hover over them for a few minutes to quell that unnatural mothering instinct that she often seemed to pull out for House, and then to make some exasperated comment before clicking off to put her hospital back to rights. He even thought she'd insist on an explanation for the chaos in her hallways. What Wilson didn't expect was for Cuddy to stride up to them, look at House, and demand, "What the hell did you do?"

House's head snapped up at her tone, his lips parted a fraction, eyes wide.

Wilson didn't even pause to consider his response. He just shot to his feet and shouted, "He didn't do anything! It's _your_ hospital – you're the one who promised there'd be an escort! How many more gunmen are you gonna let in here?"

Cuddy started, taken aback by the sudden attack, and then yelled, "I didn't _let_ anyone in! I gave his photo to security, I _told_ them to follow him!"

Over by the elevators, a knot of hospital security guards exchanged uneasy glances before moving out of earshot.

Wilson could see how tense Cuddy was, how much this must have shaken her, but he didn't care. "What, so it never occurred to you to post a guard at the kid's door? To post one on _House_? What the hell is wrong with you? You think bad things just aren't gonna happen in here? This is the third time some lunatic's gotten the chance to take a potshot at him!" He flung his hand in House's direction and heard a thump from the floor behind him, but he didn't look down.

"It's not my fault he's such an ass that people dream of shooting him!" Cuddy stepped closer and angled in with her hands balled into fists at her side, near the seams of her salmon pencil skirt. She may have been shorter than Wilson, but she was just as indignant as he was. "Maybe if he hadn't provoked the guy, dragged him to court and then gotten him arrested, he wouldn't have felt the need to come back here with a gun!"

"Oh-ho!" Wilson bounced on his feet, hands on his hips, seething. "So now you're mad at him because he got a _meth dealer_ arrested? Yeah, I can see how that's such a horrible thing. How dare he try to help somebody!"

Cuddy scoffed and made an ugly sound. "He didn't do it to help his patient. He did it to _diagnose_ his patient. He was pissed because the dad wouldn't let him solve his little puzzle." Cuddy made some sort of flappy gesture on either side of her head.

"Um. Guys?" Chase waved a hand between them to break the momentum.

Wilson was having none of that. He ignored Chase by jittering a step closer to Cuddy. "It's the same thing! Why do you have to get so bitchy whenever he saves a life? What the hell does it matter _why_ he does it?" He took a second to balk and then yelled, "And who the hell do you think you are, assuming you even _know_ why he does it?"

This time, Foreman interrupted. "Seriously, you two. Calm down."

"Shut up," Wilson barked. He turned back to Cuddy. "This has nothing to do with House and his practice, and whether or not he disrupts your precious little donor haven. You've been acting like a bitch ever since I told you – "

"Wilson!"

Wilson bit his tongue and threw an irate look down at Chase. "What?" Chase pointed and Wilson swiveled to gaze down at House. "Oh…shit." Wilson forgot all about his pissing contest with Cuddy and dropped back to the floor where House was balled up against the wall with Wilson's suit jacket wrapped over the back of his head and covering his ears. "Okay, I'm sorry. House, I'm sorry."

With his face muffled in his knee, House yelped, "Stop yelling!"

"I did, I stopped." Wilson managed to pry him away from the wall with some difficulty, and he covered House's hands to better hold the suit jacket over his ears. "Cuddy's leaving now." Wilson let an edge of steel infiltrate his tone as he glared up at Cuddy and added, "Isn't she."

Cuddy's eyes widened at the sight and she breathed, "Oh, god. I didn't mean to – "

Foreman cut her off. "You should just go."

"Yeah," Chase added. His voice carried much more flint than Foreman's. "Administrate somewhere else for a little while."

Wilson didn't look up when he heard hesitant clacks moving away, taking the scent of Cuddy's perfume with her. He was too busy trying to figure out what to do now, what with House's face buried in his chest while he insisted that he was sorry he'd diagnosed the kid. As it turned out, Wilson didn't need to do anything; House dribbled off into silence within a minute and stopped moving except to breathe. Wilson made a valiant attempt to crush him in an effort to visibly care. This was wrong. This was all wrong; House didn't just disintegrate, not in front of people like this, not even in front of Wilson. House put on his armor, mocked everything without regard for propriety, and then went home, drank himself unconscious, got over it while stuck in an alcoholic stupor, and went back to work the very next day. He didn't _ever_ make it so obvious that he gave a damn.

Chase stirred enough that Wilson lifted his head to ask, "What is it?"

"I'm gonna ask the officers if we can leave," Chase replied. He didn't quite gesture to the surreptitious onlookers not-so-innocently scattered in their vicinity, but Wilson glanced around long enough to notice what a crowd they had drawn.

Wilson nodded and kept his hold over House's ears, less because House needed the silence than simply to remain in contact with him. House had angled himself toward the wall and even though he wasn't fighting Wilson off, he had planted palm against Wilson's chest to maintain the distance between them, his other hand still stuck under Wilson's grip over his left ear. A staccato series of ragged breaths made its way out through House's nose and mouth and his eyes remained tightly clenched in a sort of self-imposed sensory deprivation. It sounded like he was on the verge of hyperventilation and Wilson wondered why this particular encounter with a gunman should set House off so much more seriously than his previous two.

After Chase hurried away, Foreman shifted on the floor so that when he spoke, the gawkers wouldn't catch his words. "I still have the Ativan from earlier. Do you think…?" He indicated House's hunched form with less than a full gesture.

Wilson pursed his lips and looked at his longtime, asshole friend, glad to have something other than the tragedy down the hall to occupy his mind. House was still trembling, a fine vibration that Wilson only noticed by virtue of touching him, and his skin had turned cold and clammy. He was already in shock, and though Wilson didn't like the idea of doping him up, he nodded to Foreman. "A half dose," Wilson clarified a second later. "I need to get him cleaned up and then home, and I'd rather have him conscious for it."

"Right." Foreman pulled the syringe from the pocket of his suit jacket; Wilson only then noticed that ever since he had returned to House's department, fresh from the employment blacklist, he hardly ever wore a lab coat.

Just after Foreman had recapped the partially used syringe, Chase returned with a steel hospital cane and several large Ziplock bags. It took Wilson a moment to realize that they were evidence bags, and his stomach roiled in on itself. "They need your clothes," Chase explained, mistaking Wilson's look for bewilderment. "I have to go with you and get them right off of you. Chain of evidence."

Wilson nodded, numb, and adjusted his grip as House sank toward him, still shivering but only half as badly. "Let's go. People are really staring now."

Chase nodded and then knelt down next to Foreman. "Somebody should get Kutner out of here."

At Chase's hooked thumb, Wilson finally saw Kutner standing awkwardly near a far wall on the other side of the nurse's station. The young man was just staring into the hospital room, his expression visibly hollow even from this distance. From his vantage point, Kutner had a clear view of the carnage that used to be his patient. Wilson supposed that the only reason the police hadn't shooed him off as well was because they needed statements from everyone who had interacted with the father and son over the past two weeks.

Foreman frowned and then blinked down at the floor. For once, he seemed genuinely worried about someone's welfare, and not in his customary stuck up way. "I'll handle it," Foreman said. "Remy and I will keep an eye on him."

Chase nodded as Foreman climbed to his feet, then proceeded to help Wilson drag House up onto the bench. Even sitting there, House swayed a bit, sluggish and uncoordinated thanks to the Ativan. Chase started to say that he would get a wheelchair but House shook his head and snatched the cane from Chase's lax grip. He hobbled upright, hindering his own attempts by leaning on Wilson while trying to pretend that he wasn't, and then stood there for a second, woozy, practically stumbling in place as he fought to find his balance. House's stubbornness seemed wrote rather than conscious belligerence, and he eventually started off toward the elevators, wobbling but not so much that Wilson insisted on supporting him. He and Chase flanked House just in case, but they made it into the elevator without incident. As the door slid closed on them, Wilson caught a glimpse of Foreman and Thirteen forcibly turning Kutner away from the crime scene. Then the elevator fell into blissful silence, the entire universe encompassed in one five-by-seven metal box, sterile, plain and bloodless. The relief was palpable.

Wilson heaved a sigh now that he could finally breathe, and listened to House fingering the fabric of his suit jacket. House would have to give it up soon; it was evidence. Wilson could only hope that the Ativan had mellowed him enough to avoid making another scene out of it. The entire trip down, Chase's disapproval hung over the carriage like a storm cloud, though Wilson didn't realize that it was _him_ Chase disapproved of until Chase grabbed his wrist and actually pulled his arm over House's shoulders. Wilson threw him a disbelieving look that vanished as soon as he felt House lean into him. The suit jacket tumbled from his fingers and Chase scooped it up off the floor, stuffing it into an evidence bag before House could protest the loss. That was a relief too.

When they reached the lower level, House automatically turned toward the back exit to the ambulance bay and Wilson had to steer him back the other way. The locker room was thankfully empty when the three of them padded in, Wilson's gait just about as unsteady as House's and Chase trailing behind like a watchdog to make sure they didn't lose their way.

It was a fairly easy business to divest House of his remaining shirts, the blazer and button down both ruined thanks to a stray bullet and Foreman's scissors. The red tee underneath yielded to Wilson's fumbling as well, revealing a wide array of bruising all over House's torso, and a few lighter, glancing marks on his back. It looked like Lyamone had tried to kidney punch House a couple of times and missed. Wilson ran his fingers over the discolorations while Chase bagged House's clothes and set them aside, waiting with a fresh bag. Wilson left House perched in a bowed lump on a bench while he removed his own clothes, everything save for his boxers, and stuffed them into the bag that Chase held out for him. Wilson was glad to be rid of all of it, even his socks and shoes. He only then discovered that he had blood all over his soles from stepping over Lyamone's body and manhandling House out of the hospital room. He'd probably tracked it all over the hospital.

"House." Wilson knelt down in front of House in an effort to catch his eye, to connect, but House made an art of not looking at him, not even when Wilson craned his neck farther down so that House couldn't miss seeing his face. "You need to wash all the… You need a shower. Come on and stand up, buddy."

House moved his head far enough to more or less face Wilson, and then twitched as he forced volition into his limbs. Wilson climbed to his feet when House did and brushed House's hands away when he proved unable to unbuckle his belt. After that, House just gave up and stood there while Wilson worked his jeans off and then prodded at him to step out of them. Those, plus House's socks and sneakers all went into bags too, and then Wilson guided him to a stall, all but pushing him inside. It was like the man had no will left, and that frightened Wilson.

Chase averted his eyes as they stepped into the same stall and announced, "I'll find you guys some scrubs."

"Thanks." Wilson closed the curtain amidst Chase's retreating footsteps, then regarded the defeated figure in front of him. "House, it's not your fault. You tried to help."

House shot him a baleful look, then nodded to humor him.

"I'm serious." Wilson cleared his throat to try to get rid of the croaky sound left behind in his dried out mouth. "I doubt it mattered who was in there, or what anyone might have said. He was…determined." He tried to occupy himself by removing the bandage over House's fresh stitches; he could do it up again later.

"Shoulda stopped him."

Wilson glanced aside, and then fiddled with the taps until a stream of tepid water shot out. "You can't blame yourself."

House stared at a corner of the stall while Wilson helped him out of his boxers, and then stripped off his own as well. Wilson hung both pairs on a hook near the curtain and turned back in time for House to say, "Stupid leg got in the way. Should've let Foreman do it."

"This didn't happen just because you're crippled," Wilson snapped. He shut his eyes in reproach when House shied from the sharpness of his tone. Then he blinked a few times, biting his lip while he scoured his mind for something more convincing to tell him. "You did more to save that kid than anyone else. No one can blame you for it."

"Cuddy does." House sucked on his lip and then looked at the water before limping under the spray. He ran unsteady fingers over himself, spreading the water in a halfhearted attempt to get clean, as if he didn't even deserve that much.

Wilson fumed for a second and then joined him under the spray, which had turned pleasantly warm. "Cuddy's an idiot."

Too plainly, House stated, "No she's not."

There was no snark to it, no House for that matter. Just a fact that echoed off the wet tile to attack Wilson's exposed body. He was going to verbally kill that woman for being so damned clueless. Wilson replied in the same tone that House had used, "She is. Don't argue with me over it."

House obeyed, which wasn't really all that encouraging; he simply didn't have the heart to fight with Wilson right now. They washed in silence, soaping each other in some sort of tandem effort to combat grief. It was an odd tender moment, House behaving so affectionately and allowing Wilson to do the same. The moment felt highly intimate and yet chaste, and it hurt Wilson to be part of it. As he tipped House's chin up to get his hair under the shower, he noticed wetness caught in chalky white streaks on either side of House's nose that didn't belong to the tap water. It must have felt safe to cry in a shower where the extra moisture could be blamed on the spray. Wilson didn't comment on it, though he did take a moment to scrub the tracks away.

By the time they finished, Chase had deposited two pairs of scrubs, some of those god-awful hospital footies, and a pile of towels on the bench nearest their stall. They would have to stop by their offices for spare shoes before they braved the parking lot, but at least they wouldn't have to wander the halls barefoot. Wilson stuck his upper half out from behind the curtain far enough to snag two of the towels, and then ducked back in. House took the towel that Wilson held out to him, but he didn't do anything with it; he just held it and stared at the terrycloth, blinking in depressed fascination as if it were a monumental thing, having a towel.

Wilson watched him for a few seconds and then took the towel back. House let him dry him off, and then he gimped out of the shower to find a bench before his leg gave out. Wilson dried himself in record time and then emerged with the towel wrapped around his waist. It wasn't quite long enough to make it all the way around, but it covered the embarrassing parts well enough. House had snatched his boxers on the way out, but that was all he wore so far. Wilson had to shake a pair of scrubs in front of him before he bothered to notice them.

"We can pick up some food," Wilson said, his mind on autopilot. All he could think of was home and the couch, which inevitably led to food. They had to eat something. "Chinese? Or maybe… We could get burgers and fries from that bar at the corner and take them home. Or wings." Wilson concentrated on tying the drawstring on his scrub pants, waiting for House to pick something. When he didn't, Wilson glanced up. "House?"

"Did you see the wall?"

Wilson furrowed his brow. "Pink Floyd, yeah. Why?"

"No, the _wall_." House picked at his fingers, dressed in fresh scrubs but somehow rumpled already just from sitting there. "s'like paintball." He pantomimed some sort of splat.

Wilson's already upset stomach churned and he looked down to give a hasty swallow; he needed some pink bismuth. "House, don't."

"Just exploded."

Wilson fell to his knees and grabbed House's shoulders to stave off any further observations. "Just don't. I was there, remember? I know what it looked like. There's no need to keep reliving it."

House chewed his lips and averted his gaze. When his eyes fell on the shiny silver cane that Chase had brought him, he reached for it. "Leg hurts."

Wilson nearly burst with relief. "I'll get you some more Vicodin. And you missed your evening meds. We'll have to catch you up before we leave."

House made a wan sound of assent. "I'll wait here."

That almost made sense – his leg hurt, he was behind on his meds, and he had just endured a physical altercation that must have stressed his damaged muscles. But Wilson knew him, and the emptiness behind the stark blue of his eyes worried him. "I'm not leaving you alone down here."

"I'll be fine."

Wilson stared at him for a long moment, and then repeated, his voice lower than before, "I'm not leaving you alone down here."

House met his eyes just long enough for Wilson to confirm the need for concern, and then House let out a laden breath. "Get Chase back then. I'm not gonna go prancing around the hospital while you try to smother me with your worried looks."

Wilson forced a smile at House's lame attempt to sound like himself. "Why? Prancing too gay for you?"

"You're the one who took ballroom dance lessons."

"Mm." Wilson made a funny, lopsided face that even he couldn't puzzle out, and then he cupped the side of House's face. "It'll be okay," he said, intent. "Just…trust me on that. Please."

House studied him for too long, looking for tells, for reasons to call him a boldfaced liar. He must not have found any because he finally nodded and let his eyes fall to the floor again.

Chase was already on his way back down when Wilson paged him; he had dropped off the evidence bags and signed them over to the officers upstairs. Chase also reported that the police had been to Lyamone's house, and that they had found his wife's body in the kitchen. House didn't react to that news other than to find a different patch of wall to commune with while Chase applied a fresh dressing over his stitches. Wilson left him in Chase's care, bent on getting them both out of there as quickly as possible. Neither of them needed to be around this sort of poison right now.

It took Wilson all of fifteen minutes to find shoes for both of them, and then to pack up all their belongings. He figured that Cuddy would give them a few days off so he made sure to grab whatever they might need to last them through to next week. And then he called Cuddy's voicemail and _told_ her that they wouldn't be in until at least Monday, perhaps longer. It was practically a dare to her to cross him, to give him something more to spout off about, but knowing her, she would simply agree. He would need to find some other excuse to spontaneously lose his temper; he was no good at confrontation if he had time to think about it too much.

The ride home was strained. House propped himself against the passenger side door, as far from Wilson as he could get without actually leaving the car, and pressed his forehead into his knuckles. Wilson drove slowly, shaky as he recovered his wits in measured doses. They had to stop off at a pharmacy because Wilson forgot to fill a fresh Vicodin script before leaving the hospital, and he had to drag House halfway out of his seat before he consented to go in with him. There should have been griping over Wilson refusing to let him out of his sight but House merely followed, glowering unpleasantly at Wilson every chance he got, and yet docile. He wouldn't take a pill, though; Wilson tried to convince him that he needed it but House clamped his mouth shut and pretended he wasn't there until Wilson gave up.

They repeated this dance at the bar where Wilson ordered way too much food in the hopes that at least one thing would appeal to them enough to eat. The whole time, House grew progressively more sullen, but it took the return of perfect silence for Wilson to realize that House was shutting down again, drawing into himself. Whether it was shock or depression or self pity, Wilson couldn't tell. He suspected a combination of all three, perhaps with a dash of anger. It wasn't healthy but Wilson didn't know how to stop the plunge; he had never been able to pull House out of his downward spirals.

Then again, he had never really tried before. Sure, he had been there after the infarction, but that was different. House had been struggling physically, he had been in excruciating pain – those sorts of things, a doctor could treat and fix. Wilson had never quite touched base with House on the other parts, though: Stacy betraying him, House driving her off, the fury, the conviction that he was less a person just because he had less of a thigh muscle than before…the fear, and the other variety of hurt that Wilson couldn't see or write a prescription for… He understood what House had gone through, but he couldn't truly say that he empathized at any point – not then, and not at any point since. And that was pretty sad, considering.

"We're home." Wilson glanced over at House, folded into the passenger seat with the hospital cane settled between his knees, his head resting against the window. He was asleep. Wilson smiled, something small and sad, and reached across the consol to rouse him.

House gave a start and grunted, then took a moment to find his bearings. His eyes wandered up the side of his building and it seemed to Wilson that he didn't recognize it right away. Then he shook himself and fumbled the door open.

The ground phone was ringing as Wilson keyed open the door, and the recollection that Blythe was on her way socked him in the gut. He hurried to answer it before it could switch to voicemail, watching as House barely made it to the couch in time to quietly flop over, not even a groan to betray his weariness. Wilson hit the talk button on his way to the closet. "Hello?"

"_Jesus – James. Is Greg okay? The televisions all say there was a shooting at the hospital. I couldn't reach you – _"

Wilson broke in before she could work herself into hysterics. "He's fine. We just got in; my cell phone broke."

"_Oh…god, were you involved? They said doctors were involved but when I called the hospital, they wouldn't tell me anything._"

Wilson tugged his old couch blanket and pillow off the shelf with one hand. "Yeah, they're just trying to keep the publicity down." He glanced over at House as he shut the closet door with a stray elbow. "Hang on a second." Trailing the blanket behind him, Wilson padded softly to the couch and muffled the receiver against his stomach. "House? Your mom's at the airport. Do you want to see her tonight?"

House mustered up enough strength to shake his head and then went still again.

"Okay. I'm gonna call Chase to come over here so I can go pick her up."

"I won't do anything," House mumbled.

Wilson didn't want to leave him to his own devices, but he was also reluctant to impose on Chase too much.

House glanced over long enough to see him waffling and added, "I promise, okay? I just wanna sleep."

Wilson let out a reluctant breath. "Okay." He turned a bit as if it mattered which way he faced. "Blythe? I'm going to come pick you up. Just give me about half an hour."

"_James, what happened? Why are you upset?_"

"Later," Wilson replied. "I'll explain when I see you."

Blythe hesitated and Wilson heard terminal announcements over the din of the airport in the background. "_Can I talk to Greg?_"

Wilson relayed the question but House shook his head again. "Look, it's…Blythe, I'll explain when I get there. Just wait for me at the baggage claim." He hung up before she could insist on a better response, and Wilson dropped the phone onto the coffee table. It was a feat just getting House to lift his head enough for the pillow, and then Wilson covered him with the blanket. "I'll take her to my place, okay? You can see her when you're ready."

House nodded, sleepy and yet not. It seemed a ruse, though Wilson had no doubt that he truly was exhausted.

"You'll be okay until I get back?"

"Quit it. I'm fine."

"Liar." Wilson brushed a hand over House's jaw, but House recoiled. "Okay." He said it as much for himself as for House, and withdrew. "I'll only be an hour."

House shrugged and turned into the pillow, dismissing him in every way but with words.

Again, Wilson said, "Okay." After detouring to the kitchen to put the overabundance of food in the fridge for safekeeping, Wilson grabbed his keys back up from the desk. As an afterthought, he pocketed House's cell phone as well, just in case. Wilson wanted to say something pithy on his way out, or else make some idiotic declaration of how much he cared, but he knew that it wouldn't go over well, especially not right now. Instead, Wilson ran a hand through his hair and mumbled, "Bye," before he opened the door.

Nothing moved in the vicinity of the couch. With a last reservation cast aside, Wilson sighed and left. There was nothing else for it, though he thought that there should have been; he just didn't know what that might be, and it left him feeling helpless. Somehow, House always managed to do that to him.

--TBC


	21. Chapter 21

Hi, all. Warnings for possibly disturbing dialogue, Wilson being an idiot, and House making things difficult with his typical House-speak and commentary. **Reviews are lurv!**

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Blythe was already outside waiting in the pickup area when Wilson pulled up between two idling taxis. He only got halfway out of the car before Blythe was yanking open the passenger side door and lowering herself into the seat with her carryon bag at her feet. With his gentlemanly effort thwarted, Wilson dropped back down and resituated his legs before closing his door. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and made a pretense of concentrating on the car passing alongside him.

"James." From her mothery tone, she expected something. Probably that explanation that he had kept on promising her.

Wilson's fingers found the back of his neck before he could stop them, and when he felt a warm hand on his back, he lost it. Right there in the fire lane, he folded over to thunk his forehead against the steering wheel and blurted, "I thought we were so dead."

"Oh, honey." Blythe somehow contorted in her seat to pull Wilson's shoulder over against herself and patted his hair. It made him want his own mother, but he supposed House's would do in a pinch. She smelled weird though, like somebody else's mom.

It didn't matter; he ended up telling her what had happened at the hospital in excruciating detail, all of it tumbling out as fast as he could recall it, and what he recalled was indelibly, horribly etched in the forefront of his brain. He hadn't planned on being so direct; in fact, he hadn't intended to tell her anything at all except that they were both fine. So much for the stoic act.

"I shouldn't have called you," Wilson said, his voice fractured but by no means beyond his control. He was actually disturbed by how dry his face was. "I just made it worse again. I just keep fucking up so spectacularly whenever I try to help him. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, dear." Blythe continued running her hand over his hair and down one arm. "I know you're just trying to be a good friend. Or…more." She let out a muffled sigh. "He hung up on me. I don't think he believed me."

"He wouldn't," Wilson muttered. He spared a moment to notice that Blythe had listened to him tell her all about the violent and gruesome death of an innocent child, and yet she remained fixated on herself and House. The woman's powers of repression were truly a wonder to behold, in a sick sort of way. Wilson sighed and offered a relatively neutral, "Everybody lies. It's his credo. I guess there's no mother clause." He hesitated to say more, but he was already so far in the hole that he didn't think it mattered anymore. "He wants to be a bad guy so that whatever John did means he cared." That came out way more confusing than he had intended, but Blythe merely squeezed him for a second without comment. "God, I… Why, Blythe?" Wilson pulled back and set about straightening his scrubs; being presentable made him feel like he at least had control over one thing in his life. "Why did you and John… Why would you do that to him, to a little boy? You obviously love him – screwed up or not. How could you love him and still pull that sort of crap?"

Blythe pressed her lips together and settled her hands in her lap. "I've wondered that myself," she admitted. "For a long time. I suppose we didn't know any better. It took Greg finally…snapping once to get us to see it." She cast a mournful look in Wilson's direction. "But we did. It took almost… But we _did_ see it, and we tried… But it was too late, I guess." Her eyes drifted back to her hands and Wilson ignored the dirty looks he attracted for hogging one precious section of the pickup lane. Almost to herself, Blythe remarked, "He was always such a smart little boy. And he loved me so much. It wasn't his fault."

Wilson blinked a few times and then crinkled his nose as he peered out the windshield. That was an odd turn of phrase. Usually, parents remarked upon how much they love their children, not the other way around. They were talking about something important, he could sense that much, but he had no idea what. The subject had changed at some point without his knowing, though he figured that the last comment referred to John. "When are you going to stop defending him?"

"It wasn't!" Blythe's head rose sharply and she glared across the seat at him. "Greg didn't mean any harm. He thought he was doing a good thing."

"…Greg…" Wilson blinked as he watched Blythe realize that Wilson didn't know what she was talking about. "What good thing?"

Blythe opened her mouth but no sound came out. A shuttered look stole over her face and she looked forward, very much like House in her poise. Barely audible, she whispered, "Never mind. It doesn't matter anymore."

Well, at least Wilson now knew which parent House had gotten _that_ habit from. "It matters. If you think otherwise, then you're an idiot." He turned his attention to the road and slammed the Volvo into drive harder than necessary. "You've got to be the most dysfunctional family I've ever had the pleasure of interacting with."

Blythe let out a weary breath that seemed to speak to decades of self-deception. As Wilson merged onto the freeway, she finally said, "You know that John's not Greg's biological father, right?"

"Yeah," Wilson replied, too irritated at the moment to care much whether she continued or not. "He figured it out when he was twelve. He told me." Wilson scoffed. "I would have cheated too." Of course, considering his history, that didn't say much.

Blythe must have become inured to insult, because his comment didn't even phase her. "How much did he tell you?"

Wilson glanced at his passenger, the suddenly unwelcome woman to his right, and then focused on the headlight-skewered night in front of him. "He said that they didn't talk for the rest of that summer. Something about John passing notes under his bedroom door. Why?"

Blythe stared out the windshield and then shrank until it seemed that she had adopted the diminutive stature of the old woman that she was supposed to be. "If he hasn't said anything about it, I don't think it's my place to tell you."

Wilson silently fumed in his seat and changed lanes abruptly enough to jerk them both to the left. Unsatisfied curiosity didn't sit any better with him than it did with House, though unlike House, Wilson could refrain from making a nuisance of himself. Well, sometimes anyway, on some subjects. He had to wrestle himself into submission this time.

Blythe took him by surprise by breaking the silence. "I know he doesn't want to see me right now, but…" She rummaged through her carryon again and withdrew a stack of carefully preserved envelopes with 'Greg' written on the front in unsteady block letters, each one thick enough to hold several pages. They looked old, as in thirty years old…as in all those notes slipped under a twelve year old House's bedroom door. "He never read them; I found them all in his trash can under his desk. Maybe one of these days, if you think he might want them… You could save them for him?"

Wilson tried to not be swayed by the hopeful little glint secreted in Blythe's eyes, but he had always been a sucker for weepy women. Hell – for all he knew, Blythe was aware of that and was purposefully using it against him. God, he was turning into a cynic; sometimes hope was simply hope. Wilson pressed his mouth into a thin line but he nodded at her carryon. "I'm taking you to my apartment again. You can leave them in there so that House doesn't find them and decide to have a weenie roast."

It took Blythe several seconds to work that out, and then she frowned. "I don't understand how he could hate John so much."

"You don't understand," Wilson deadpanned. "Seriously?"

Blythe glared at him. "It's not as if we enjoyed it."

"Yeah, I know. It was for his own good." Wilson snorted. "Lessons." Silence descended for a minute and Wilson merged into the exit lane and tapped the brakes, unwilling to fully engage the woman while his temper was still so frayed.

"We apologized."

Wilson clicked on his blinker and then glanced at Blythe.

"_I_ never hurt him but I still apologized. He said it was okay."

"He did not." Wilson turned his attention outward and made a brutal left turn. "One of his fellows was there. House said two words to you, and neither one of them was 'okay.'"

Blythe scoffed. "You really do think you're a know-it-all. Greg was right." She flared her nostrils and then directed her irritation at the passenger side window. "I meant when he was twelve. I told him I was sorry we yelled, that we should never have upset him like that." Her voice grew distant. "He said it was okay. I thought it actually was."

Wilson watched the road, mostly annoyed with Blythe but also intrigued. He couldn't help remembering how House had cried at him and Cuddy to stop yelling, to quit shouting about _him_ as if he weren't sitting right there. Blythe didn't elaborate, though, and Wilson steered the car up to his apartment much sooner than he might have otherwise hoped. Being the polite host that he had been programmed to play, Wilson led her up to his door, the same as last time except House wasn't sulking in the car. He made a quick run through of the apartment before Blythe had much of a chance to notice evidence of his last night here with House, a week ago on the air mattress. After dumping the linens in the hamper, Wilson then had to take time to deflate and roll up the air mattress, and then return it to the closet. Blythe wandered around while he did this, not really looking at any of his things; she seemed restless.

Wilson only bid her a cursory goodbye once the place was more or less in order, and hurried back down to his car. He had told House that he would only be gone an hour, but between lingering at the airport and then messing around here, he was running closer to two. Hopefully, House was asleep and oblivious; if not, Wilson wasn't sure what to expect. In a way, House was like a child suffering from separation anxiety, at least where Wilson's unpredictable comings and goings were concerned. Most of the time, House brushed it all off except to stare at him harder than usual, as if to verify that Wilson was really there and that he didn't look like he had been up to anything untoward. But when House was stressed, he reacted more strongly to any prolonged absence. It was like he thought that Wilson would leave one day to grab a gallon of milk and just never come back.

Speaking of, there was nothing much to drink at House's apartment so Wilson stopped off at a gas station on the way back. House's cell phone rang while he was standing in front of the beer cooler and he decided that alcohol wouldn't help matters as he dug it out and flipped it open. "Hello?" Soda would be better. Maybe cherry Coke.

"_Doctor Wilson? It's Chase._"

"Oh." Wilson cringed at the cheery lilt in his voice. He could hear the fakeness seeping at the edges. "What's up?"

"_Where are you?_" Chase sounded accusatory.

Wilson opened a cooler and grunted as a twelve pack got stuck on the brim of the shelf. "Convenient store, getting some soda. Why?"

"_I think you should go home._"

Wilson paused, his arm bathed in a billow of frosty air. "Why?"

"_House called me._"

The twelve pack plunked back into the cooler as Wilson unhanded it. "Why, what happened? What did he do?" He knew he shouldn't have left House alone.

Chase rushed to reassure him. "_Nothing. At least, I don't think so. He just…talked. I couldn't get a word in edgewise._"

"Talked…House talked? About what?" Great; now he sounded jealous.

"_Anything he could think of, except the hospital and you._" Chase sighed. "_He was doing something in the background, though; I couldn't tell what. Just moving around a lot and rummaging or something._" The receiver muffled and Wilson heard Chase yell, "_Just a minute. Consult._" He came back and explained, "_I didn't tell Allison what's been going on. Look, I just really think you need to go home. Soon. He sort of weirded me out._"

Wilson hesitated, and then plucked at the twelve pack again. "I had to pick his mom up from the airport. It took longer than I expected."

"_Yeah. Wilson, go home._"

The line played over some static for a few seconds, and Wilson finally freed the twelve pack from the cooler shelf. He set it on the floor and then mopped at the condensation on his brow. It was freezing; he shouldn't be sweating. "I can't talk to him about it. I can't…he wants to just…he was talking about paintball in the locker room, how the wall looked like a paint pellet exploded on it."

Chase sighed, and then his tone softened considerably. "_He's just processing. He needs to dehumanize it._"

"Yeah, and I can't do that," Wilson snapped. He glanced up as a middle-aged woman shot him a wary look and wandered away from the soda coolers. Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his voice so as not to scare away any other shoppers. "That was a little boy, Chase. A tiny, innocent person, and we failed him, and now he's dead. I can't treat that like a list of symptoms on a white board."

"_Neither can House. Wilson, get your head out of your arse for a second. He nearly shut down in the hallway. Remember? He's not dissociating it, he's just trying to find a way to fit it into a box in his brain that makes sense._" Chase paused and Wilson heard a door shut on the other end of the line. "_He has no idea how to do that, and frankly, I don't think you do either. You should be at home._"

Wilson blinked at the twelve pack of cherry Coke sitting on the floor near his feet. Finally, Wilson admitted, "I don't want to be there. I can't look at him like that, when he's just…empty."

"_Wilson… Go. Home._" Chase took a breath and added, "_Now._"

"I shouldn't have followed him in there in the first place. Chase, he was gonna give the kid up just because Lyamone had a gun to my head. I made the entire situation worse."

"_Mm-hm, right. Wait, isn't House the one with the huge ego problem? Are you two taking turns or something? Cuz that's totally kinky._"

Wilson's eyes narrowed at a Ben & Jerry's display. "Excuse me?"

"_You're saying that you single-handedly drove some crazy bloke to commit a murder-suicide. That's incredible. Does it do something for you, shouldering imaginary blame for a situation that was totally beyond your control?_"

Wilson blinked. "But he used me to get to House. Can you imagine what House would have done if the guy had followed through on the threat? House was leaving; he called the bluff. I should be dead right now."

"_Oh, so it's survivor's guilt. That's cool then._"

"Why are you trivializing this?!" Wilson ignored another shopper beating a hasty retreat to the chip aisle.

"_I'm not trivializing it; I'm making a point. You had no control. You tried to do a good thing because you care, and it went horribly wrong, and that sucks big time. Newsflash: House feels the same damn thing. Or did you think otherwise?_"

Wilson balked. "You're not listening to me. He was going to hand over a child, knowing that the kid would die, just to save me!"

"Sir?"

Wilson whirled to find the store manager eyeing him uncertainly. "Uh. Sorry. Medical thing." He pointed to his phone as if that could help. "I'm a doctor."

"Right." The guy glanced around, perhaps for help dealing with the psycho in his beverage aisle. "Look, if you're not gonna buy something, you need to leave."

"_Wilson?_"

"I'm getting…" Wilson looked around as he realized that he had wandered from his twelve pack, and then pointed. "I'm buying that."

The manager raised an eyebrow. "Now?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Chase, I gotta go."

"_So you're pissed off over him caring about you, and now you're gonna hang up on me?_"

"No, I'm hanging up on you because some Nazi gas station guy is getting annoyed at me for scaring off his customers." Wilson shuffled over to the twelve pack; even without House around, he still lurched to match the guy's gait. Wilson groaned as he hauled it up off the floor, ignoring the glare trained on his back. "I'm going home, okay? Don't get your panties in a bunch. Bye now." Wilson flipped the phone shut on his chest, cutting off some retort about how Wilson was a moron for being agitated over House giving a shit about him, since only an idiot could be surprised by that, and slipped it back into his pocket so that he could complete his purchase. "There." Wilson glared back at the store manager. "Happy?"

The guy preceded Wilson to the register, muttering, "Jerk," under his breath.

By the time Wilson arrived back at 221B, he was both relieved and perturbed to find the living room light extinguished. He turned it back on as he tiptoed in, wary in case House was passed out on the couch. The blanket was still there, heaped in a twisted pile at one end, but the pillow had fallen to the floor. House wasn't there. Wilson craned his neck to get a glimpse of the hallway; he could see a sliver of light shining out from under the bathroom door and refused to sigh in relief.

"House, I'm back," Wilson called. "Gonna heat up the food." He waited for a response, though he didn't exactly expect one.

When cold silence met his ears, Wilson snorted and slipped off his shoes, kicking them out of the way against the wall should House not notice them and trip. Then he shuffled into the kitchen in those stupid treaded footies that he was still wearing and opened the fridge. He left the wings for later and pulled out one of the burger/fry combo meals that he had purchased from the bar. He doubted that either of them would have a large appetite, and House seemed to derive some quacked brand of comfort from filching off of Wilson's plate anyway. It would be easier for them to share one meal.

Wilson pulled out a plate and transferred the food out of the Styrofoam container so that he could safely stick it in the microwave. While it heated, he went to the garbage can and stuffed the take-out container inside. He sighed to discover the can full again and made an aggravated gesture in House's direction. Yes, the guy gimped all over the place, but honestly. He could suffer to take out the trash once in a while, especially when he stuffs it so full of random detritus that Wilson can't get anything more in there.

Wilson pulled off the lid and deposited the Styrofoam container on top, then proceeded to mash everything down far enough to tie the bag shut. He took a moment to wonder why House had thrown out a collection of knick knacks, coffee mugs and…sneakers? The shoes didn't even look walked in. What the hell had House been up to?

The toilet flushed as Wilson passed through the living room, so he called, "I'm going to the dumpster. Be back in a second."

House was back in the living room when Wilson returned, huddled on his left side and facing the back of the couch. Well, as huddled as a guy over six feet tall could get; he still took up the entire sofa. Wilson padded softly over to stand between him and the coffee table. He took care to be quiet, though he knew that House could not have fallen asleep already. Indeed, Wilson could see eyelashes flicker each time House blinked.

"Hey." It encouraged Wilson that this time, House didn't pull away from the hand he laid on House's shoulder. The man needed to eat more; his scapula stuck out far too much. "Why don't you go to bed? You'll wake up cranky if you sleep here." Wilson pulled a face for House's benefit, but House didn't look at him. "Well, crankier than usual." He guffawed, but the humor came out strained, like angel hair spaghetti thin enough to fall out through the holes in a sieve. Wilson frowned at the lack of response. "House?"

House moved his shoulder forward, away from Wilson, though the gesture was not insistent; it seemed natural for him to avoid Wilson's hand, as innate as breathing or saying something so brutally honest that it stung. Wilson wondered if House had taken something, but only out of reflex; he could see House's pupils from here, and they were dilated due to the poor illumination, not constricted.

Wilson glanced aside and found himself silently asking the piano what the hell he should do. House could carry on a nice long conversation with Chase, but he couldn't even acknowledge Wilson? For lack of anything better, Wilson looked back at House and asked, "Does your leg hurt?" House hadn't taken a pill in more than six hours, when he had swallowed half a bottle of them in his office. It was too early for withdrawal but he had to be feeling it by now.

House stirred and then gave a listless nod.

"I'll get you something." Wilson let his hand ghost over House's hair as he retreated to grab a glass of water, and then to fish House's pills out of the pharmacy bag that he had left lying on the desk. When he offered the pills to House, he half expected to be rebuffed again, but House took them from Wilson's palm and downed both along with the entire glass of water. Wilson twisted to set the glass on the coffee table and then sat down in the crook of House's knees. "Are you hungry?"

"No." That single word conveyed a wealth of apathy.

"If you don't want bar food, I can make you soup or spaghetti… Pancakes?" Wilson smiled in the hope of enticing House to agree; he knew that House liked his pancakes, with or without macadamia nuts.

But House shook his head, employing the barest possible amount of effort.

Wilson's mouth drew into a thin line and he shot the empty water glass a searching look. "Talk to me. What's going on in there?"

House roused himself a bit and then mumbled, "You don't wanna talk."

"Funny," Wilson quipped, though it sounded raw enough to come out as something more like annoyance. "Considering that I'm sitting here as we speak…talking."

House exhaled; he didn't quite hit on a sigh because even sighs required a show of emotion. "You're not talking; you're just saying things to fill up the silence. Cuz it's awkward."

Wilson sighed, his nostrils flared. "House… Come on. Don't be like this."

"You can leave again if it bothers you." House managed to turn his back metaphorically just by breathing. "Doesn't matter."

Wilson made random troubled, frustrated faces and then decided, "I want you to eat something." Without waiting for another refusal, Wilson stood and escaped to the kitchen.

Busying himself with food preparation had always served to distract Wilson, but tonight, he kept stealing glances at House where he remained folded into the back of the couch, unmoving except to suck in long, slow draughts of air made stale by the couch he had his nose pressed into. At some point, Wilson realized that he was just standing there at the counter, staring at House while House stared at the couch. He finally noticed that House had changed out of the scrubs, but he was wearing Wilson's flannel pants and long-sleeved t-shirt from the night before. It would have been creepy, had it not torn out microfibers of Wilson's heart. Wilson pressed his lips together and then forced himself to get on with fixing something edible.

The phone rang in the middle of chopping carrots into manageable quarters; Wilson ignored it until it switched to voicemail, uninterested in whatever whomever had to say right now. House's pre-recorded voice piped through the apartment, happy and sarcastic and all the things Wilson liked to hear but would never admit to enjoying. "_Hi there. Only idiots leave messages on these things, and you'll prove me right in about four seconds._" Wilson grinned over the beep. He hadn't heard that one yet; House must have just changed it.

"_Um, hello, Greg. This is Sara Wilson…James Wilson's mom? I don't mean to be a bother, but I saw on the news that something happened at Plainsboro and I can't get a hold of him – his cell phone goes right to voicemail and he's not answering at the office. I know I'm probably just overreacting, but I thought that maybe, since you work with him, you could just humor me and tell me he's alright?_"

Wilson hung his head over a pile of vegetables; he didn't want to talk to her tonight. And he'd cut up enough carrots to feed the entire cancer ward. The obscene sound of creaking leather drew his gaze to the living room in time to watch House pick up the phone, cutting his mother off in the middle of some babble about being sorry about calling so late at night. That prompted Wilson to check the time: ten thirty.

"Mrs. Wilson?" House hooked his arm under his bad leg and lowered it to the floor. He still sounded off normal; his effort at nonchalance practically screamed that he was the exact opposite at the moment. "Yeah, no. He's here." A pause. "Sort of." House grimaced and felt at the pockets of his sleep pants before he frowned absently. "Cooking. Yeah, he does that." House's free hand migrated to his thigh and started working around at the muscles there. "Okay, I guess." House left off pawing at his leg and held the phone out in Wilson's direction. "Your mom's pissed at you for making her think you're dead in a gutter on the side of the turnpike." The phone emitted an indignant squawk.

Wilson focused back on the items spread across the counter and replied, "Tell her I'll call her back in the morning."

The apartment fell silent for a second, and then House said, "But she's on the phone."

"I'll call her back!" Wilson barked, and then immediately crammed his thumb and forefinger up into his eye sockets.

He glanced up in time to see House bring the phone hesitantly back to his own ear and say, "Um…no." Then he glanced at Wilson, coveting the phone somehow and the voice on the other end. "Okay, sure."

Wilson pursed his lips; he suddenly didn't want to listen to House carrying on yet another conversation with somebody House was hardly acquainted with when he wouldn't even voluntarily exchange a full sentence with Wilson. "Hang on." Wilson grabbed a towel to wipe off his hands and strode into the living room to snatch the phone from House's grasp. "Mom, I'm fine." From the corner of his eye, he watched House make another abortive search of his pockets and then scan the contents of the coffee table before he occupied himself with itching his stubble.

"_Greg said you were involved. What happened? Are you sure you're okay? Did you get hurt?_"

Wilson rolled his eyes and plodded back into the kitchen. "Really, mom. I'm fine." God, he was starting to sound like House.

"_Well, I never know for sure! It's not like you'd call us if something _were_ wrong. I had to find out about your last divorce from Julie, and Greg's the one who told us you spent a year living in a hotel._"

"Yeah. Can we maybe _not_ keep bringing that up?" Wilson angled the phone in against his shoulder to free his other hand and went looking for a baggie in which to store the plethora of carrot sticks. He also made a mental note not to let House near his family unsupervised again; the guy blabbed all over the place.

Wilson heard a heavy sigh over the phone. "_You worry me, James. You never sound happy when I call._"

"Hmph." Imagine that. Wilson scooped carrots into a ziplock bag and headed to the refrigerator. On the way, he spied House now perched on his piano bench. "Mom."

"_Okay, okay. I'm your mother. It's my job to worry like that._" She paused. "_So what, exactly, does 'involved' mean?_"

The extra carrots landed in the crisper and Wilson grabbed a container of sour cream before closing the fridge. Even though he hadn't seen the news reports, he figured that, "We were both in the room," would suffice.

"_Oh…goodness._" She shuffled around for a second; Wilson figured she was sitting down. "_What about Greg? Is he okay? He sounded off._"

Wilson glanced out into the living room again; House hadn't even opened the key cover. "Um…not really. No." Lowering his voice, he added, "It was his patient."

"_Oh, dear. Have you talked to him about it? He could probably use a friend._"

"He won't talk to me," Wilson replied, the food forgotten.

"_Why not?_"

"How should I know?" Wilson snapped. "He's House."

His mom huffed at him. "_Put him on the phone._"

Wilson shook his head even though she couldn't see him. "No, mom. That's not a good idea."

"_James. Evan. Wilson. Put him on the phone._"

House was fiddling with the music prop now, flipping it up and down on its hinges, up and down, up and down… "I doubt he wants to hear from you any more than he wants to hear from me right now."

"_James._" Uh-oh; that was her warning tone.

"Your three-count doesn't work on me anymore." Wilson tore his gaze from the depressing sight of his best friend and tried to absorb himself in making a vegetable dip.

"_Is that so?_"

Wilson sighed and shut his eyes in annoyance. "Can this wait? I'm exhausted and starving."

Silence.

"Oh, for – fine." Wilson stormed out of the kitchen and thrust the phone at House. "You have my permission to tell her off and then hang up on her."

House raised an eyebrow as he accepted the phone, bewildered but curious. "Hello?" As Wilson stomped back to his culinary haven, he heard House remark, "He's just crabby cuz he missed American Idol. Some loony tune had to go hold up the second floor."

Wilson glared at House over his shoulder, but his irritation faded as he noticed House's expression. House _wanted_ to talk to her. It wasn't obvious, not by a long shot, but it was there in the way that House merely endured Sara's response while picking at the dry skin on his bottom lip. Wilson quickly turned away, his innards curled in something akin to shame. Why talk to her? House had met her maybe a half dozen times, never mind the fact that Wilson carried House reports to every family gathering he attended. If House was going to talk to anyone, it should be Wilson.

"I dunno," House said.

Wilson concentrated on mixing spices into sour cream and studiously refrained from gawking at House.

"No, just… I guess so."

Chives. Where were the chives?

"He doesn't wanna relive it."

Wilson couldn't help glancing into the other room at that.

House had hunched a bit over the phone, as if he were hoarding his conversation. He had the rubber tip of his cane resting on the floor between his feet, absently rubbing parts of his face over the handle. "Why does it matter? You don't even like me." A pause, whereupon House cast a cornered look out the window. "You're only talking to me because you have to be nice. It's one of the Three Laws of Wilsonotics." House smiled, shy and guarded where he thought no one could see. "If a person so much as looks at you, you must feed them. And all spare moments must be spent cleaning."

Wilson tilted his head and shuffled toward the sink so that he could watch House while minimizing the possibility that House might notice.

"Place is spotless," House said, grinning. "Asimov would be so proud."

Against his will, Wilson smiled into the sink, his head bowed.

"Um…I don't…but…no."

Wilson took a step toward the doorway at that.

House had turned to face the wall behind his piano, his voice lowered as if trying to keep Wilson from overhearing. He sounded distressed all of a sudden. "Why would you say that?" His back muscles flexed as he moved to betray his discomfort. "But that's…you don't understand."

Wilson jittered away from the counter, purposefully loud in his approach. "House?"

House twisted on the bench to shoot Wilson a startled look. "What?" Then he scowled at the phone. "Not you. Wilson. Hang on." He cast a stony stare in Wilson's direction.

Uncomfortable under that gaze, Wilson asked, "Is…Is everything okay?" He wished he hadn't walked in.

"Ducky." House tilted his head. "That all?" Sara must have just kept right on talking because House made a strange face and swiveled the mouthpiece back up to remark, "Well, now you're just being silly." Then he got a cornered look on his face, which morphed into spooked right in front of Wilson's eyes. House's cheek twitched and he fumbled the phone away from his ear so that he could jab the end button.

Wilson's brows fell into a dark line, and he glanced aside as he approached House. "Are you okay?"

House canted his head in a gesture that resembled a focal dystonic twitch and then set the phone on the piano. "I'm going to bed."

"Oh…kay." Wilson watched him lever himself to his feet, his right leg more useless than normal, and then hobble out of the room. Once House disappeared, Wilson regarded the phone warily before picking it up. He dialed his parents' home and waited for his mom to answer. Without preamble, Wilson asked, "What did you say to him?"

Sara sighed. "_Did I upset him?_"

"Yeah," Wilson barked. "He went off to hide in a dark corner. What did you say?"

"_I just told him that he did a good thing, and that if he didn't believe me, he should call his own mother._"

Wilson palmed his face and muttered, "Great, mom. That's just wonderful."

"_I thought that would help! You've told me how he never got along with his parents, and I know you've said he had rough spot when his father died, so I said that if he were alive, he'd be proud of him._"

Wilson gaped at nothing. "You _what_? Mom…"

"_What? He would be! Gregory did a heroic thing – he tried to save a child's life._"

"Mom, House's dad abused him. He doesn't need to hear that!" Wilson threw a harried glance over his shoulder to make sure that House wasn't lurking somewhere, eavesdropping. "And no, John wouldn't be proud. He'd probably rub it in House's face that the kid still died."

"_He…oh. Oh, dear._"

Wilson groaned in exasperation and plopped onto the arm of the couch. This was a disaster; he never should have let her practice her do-gooding after the day they'd had. From the depths of the apartment, Wilson heard House thumping around in the bedroom, and over the phone, his mom repeated what Wilson had just said. Wilson's dad, David, growled something inaudible and then the phone clicked as Sara passed it to him.

From the _rrrr_ that sounded over the line, they still hadn't upgraded to a cordless. "_James? Give Greg the phone. I want to talk to him._"

Wilson rolled his eyes. Was this what House felt every time Wilson tried to mitigate the effects of his life? He was so sick of this copious, unsolicited butting in. "No, dad. Whatever you have to say, I guarantee you, he doesn't need to hear it."

David made one of those low sounds that Wilson had always associated with getting one of The Lectures as a child. "_I'm gonna give you one guess why I never let you out of my sight when we visited your grandfather._"

Wilson's brow furrowed and he looked around without seeing the room.

"_Put him on the phone now._"

Wilson hesitated, puzzling that out. "Uhb. No, dad."

"_James._"

The microwave dinged and Wilson all but fell off the arm of the couch. He alternated glances between the kitchen, the hallway and the phone and then rushed to say, "I have to go. Sorry." He hung up before David could lose his temper, and then contemplated the phone for a few minutes. "Huh." The receiver clattered back into the cradle and Wilson turned the ringer off before striding through the apartment with a purpose.

He found House curled up on Wilson's side of the bed, but before he could go to him, Wilson halted at the sight of a veritable mess. "What the hell, House?" The contents of the closet were scattered all over the bedroom floor, House's stacks of books and medical journals had been toppled onto the floor, and two of the dresser drawers remained half open. House's nightstand drawer was upended on the floor beside the bed. "Are you _trying_ to fall and break your neck?"

"Go away. I don't want to talk to any more Wilsons."

Wilson flopped his arms at his sides and then made a face at the floor. "I'm sorry she said that. She was trying to help; she didn't know."

House mumbled, "You're an idiot. She was being nice."

Wilson blinked. "And… Okay, you got me. I thought she pissed you off."

"She did," House replied. "Doesn't change why she said it."

"But you hate platitudes." Wilson studied him as if the line of House's body could explain his sudden willingness to forgive somebody's unsought kindness.

House shrugged after a fashion. "She's a Wilson." And that was all the explanation he offered.

Wilson sighed and then relented, clambering onto a bed lumped over with tangled sheets and a pile of blankets that used to be in the closet. After kicking some of the extra bedding away, Wilson laid down behind House and snaked an arm over his waist.

House made a token attempt to bat him off before allowing Wilson to spoon up against him. "Fuck off."

"I'm not saying anything," Wilson soothed. "No more talking to Wilsons."

House let out a long breath and then settled, molding himself into the bed clothes instead of into Wilson, and rolling a few inches away in the process. "Can't you just spend the night somewhere else? Like your own apartment?"

Apparently, House had forgotten about Blythe being there. "It's got cooties."

House snorted, but turned morose again right after. True to his word, Wilson didn't try to talk at all. Eventually, House fell asleep like that, though it took Wilson over an hour to relax enough to ignore House's uneven breathing, even while dreaming. And then right on the plateau at the edge of sleep, it hit him. Coffee mugs they never used, pristine old sneakers, decorative boxes and knickknacks, his bedside table… House had spent the two hours of Wilson's absence rooting out his Vicodin stashes. He'd gotten rid of everything not safely held in Wilson's possession.

In the murk where House would never know, Wilson grinned. But it faded as darker reasons for House's actions occurred to him. Either House was putting a monumental – for him – amount of trust in Wilson, or he was protecting himself from the urge to down way too many pills without Wilson's knowledge. House had left a mess in his wake because he knew that Wilson would eventually piece it together. The motive, however, remained shrouded. Either House was telling Wilson that things could change for the better, or he was warning Wilson…was asking for help the only way he could. There was no way to know which, and House would never just clarify it if Wilson asked.

Visions of a particular bleak Christmas Eve lulled Wilson down the rest of the way – a flannel checkered shirt that matched the little puddle of vomit on the living room floor, House not answering his door, an upended lamp, a glass drained of bourbon and an empty pill bottle with Wilson's name printed alongside some patient's…

Wilson slept fitfully at best.

* * *

Wilson woke with a start. He could hear House pacing in the living room, stomping really. That couldn't be good. Wilson dabbed at the crust in the corners of his eyes, then craned his neck to see the clock. It was just shy of five in the morning; at least Wilson had gotten most of a full night's sleep. He wondered, though, how long House had been up. If the pacing had already degenerated into heavy, careless steps, the ones House used after he dropped all concerns aside from continuing to move, then he couldn't have slept long before the cramping drove him from bed.

Wilson padded down the hall, still wearing yesterday's scrubs, and paused beside a bookshelf to watch House lumber past without noticing him. Wilson took a few steps farther into the room as House disappeared into the kitchen, but he wasn't keen on blocking House's well worn track. As House came back into the living room, he was scraping the back of his thumbnail over his forehead, so his hand blocked his view of Wilson until he came abreast of him.

Wilson gave a weak smile. "Hey."

"Jesus – !" House stumbled to the right, and then nearly doubled over his cane, his face pinched, listing dangerously to the wrong side. "Amph-fuck."

Wilson catapulted away from the wall to try to keep House from toppling over, but House straightened quickly enough to back away, huffing out a sharp breath at the stance he had adopted. Wilson scowled at him as he made a wobbly pivot on his cane and headed back toward his piano. "House, for crying out loud. You can drop the tough guy act around me."

House threw him an exasperated look as he hobbled past.

Wilson returned the look in kind, though his gaze only caught the back of House's head. "Sit down. You're not doing yourself any favors clomping around in circles all night." Wilson frowned as House turned and started back in his direction, ignoring him. "Who do you think you're impressing?"

"Apparently, not you," House replied. He could barely talk in his normal tone, his breathing was so labored.

Wilson latched a hand onto the back of his neck as House disappeared into the kitchen again. "Does your leg hurt?"

House stumped back into view and paused. "No. This is my tickle face." Then he gave a curt, incredulous shake of his head and proceeded to ignore Wilson while he made his loud way back to the piano.

Wilson followed this time and took the rather insane risk of placing a hand on House's shoulder. "Let me do something."

House shoved past Wilson, dislodging his hand in the process. "Don't touch me."

With a sigh, Wilson looked away. He hated when House got like this. Its being a usual occurrence and something that he had grown accustomed to didn't lessen the useless feeling that it left him with. He glanced up in time to watch House round the kitchen island and stop for a second, his face contorted and his bad leg merely brushing the ground. Whatever it was that caused his momentary break passed, and House resumed pacing, his steps quick and angry in a desperate sort of way.

Wilson looked down in the hopes that House wouldn't notice the pity etched all over his face. He probably needn't have bothered; House wasn't really paying attention to him at the moment, as he was focused on his own private warpath around the living room furniture. Wilson darted a few more glances at House's back and then crossed the room to the desk where House normally tossed his backpack. When he realized that it wasn't there, Wilson lifted his face to the ceiling, his hands latched onto his waist. "You left your meds at the hospital, didn't you."

House heaved himself on by, headed back to the kitchen, but he spared a second to gasp, "Duh."

"You threw _everything_ out?" Wilson grabbed the little paper prescription bag that he had picked up on the way home, unsurprised to find that House had apparently rummaged in there already. Wilson's gaze flickered to House's back as he uncapped the bottle and made a rough count of the remaining pills; he felt like an ass for doing it, but he couldn't deny his relief at discovering only two or three missing. Unfortunately, those hadn't helped House one bit, and Wilson set the baggie down so that he could at least put himself in House's field of vision as House lumbered heavily around the kitchen island, flat-footed on his left and barely touching the floor on his right. "Do you have anything left here? Rescue meds? Muscle relaxants?"

House came to a rough halt in the kitchen doorway, panting and hanging onto the door jamb with an arm that visibly trembled in time with his furious voice. "Don't you think I would've taken something by now if I had _any_thing here?" He pushed off the door and stomped heavily toward the piano again, passing Wilson where he stood uneasily beside the desk, trying not to watch his best friend fall to pieces at the mercy of a handful of missing tissue small enough to fit in the palm of a child's hand. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Too softly for House to hear, Wilson muttered, "I wish I knew." He listened to House bite back something that was either another retort, or an exclamation of pain, and then House staggered onward to gain a handhold on the piano lid. "House… What are you trying to prove?"

"That the world is flat. Like your personality."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Just sit down."

"No, thank you. Magellan would be so disappointed."

"I hate to pick apart your scathing wit, but Magellan believed in a round personality." Wilson tried to catch his arm on the next pass without unbalancing him, but House lurched out of the way at the last second, as if he could sense what Wilson intended to do. With a frustrated grimace, Wilson flared his nostrils and paced along in House's wake. "Let me try massaging it. It might help work out the – "

"Not a cramp," House grunted. His steps faltered and he paused to lean on the back of the couch; Wilson could just see his face in profile, mouth open as he gulped in air, eyes shut. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and appeared to be shivering.

Wilson approached, but only partway. He felt, once again, like he faced a caged animal separated by tissue-thin walls. "Spasm? Breakthrough pain?"

House hissed in a breath and sagged a bit where he stood. In a voice dangerously close to a whine, he grated, "Burns."

Wilson shifted, taken aback by the outright disgust that lingered in House's tone, and in the breaths that followed. "Neuropathic?"

A purposefully controlled exhale answered that.

"Okay." Wilson glanced at the useless bag of Vicodin crinkled on the desk, and then he removed the hand that had magically appeared on the back of his neck. "Okay. Did you take your evening dose of gabapentin before we left your office?"

House's head flew up and he threw a look of such loathing over his shoulder that Wilson recoiled a step. "Do I look like a fucking moron to you? Of course I took the damn pills!"

Wilson's hands went up to ward him off on instinct. He hadn't seen House take it, and technically, he was supposed to take it with a meal; House hadn't eaten since lunch. "I was just asking."

"Well, stop asking stupid questions." House limped a few steps away from the couch, then had to stop again, hunched over the cane, his whole frame quivering in an effort to hold himself upright. "Fuck. _Fuck_."

House clamped his teeth over his bottom lip after that and Wilson crossed the few steps between them without thinking. He stuffed his arms under House's and accepted as much weight as House was willing to relinquish. The fact that he didn't snap at Wilson again meant that he couldn't risk chasing off the support that Wilson offered, and while Wilson liked it when House consented to let him help, it was never a good sign when he lost his snark.

"You still have some Fentanyl," Wilson suggested. "There's a lozenge on the shelf above your sink."

"No fucking way. That stuff should be banned."

Wilson smothered the relief he felt at that; he didn't think he could live through a repeat of that weekend. Since they hadn't been able to make it to the hospital that night, they still didn't know for certain whether House had overdosed because of the Vicodin he had also taken that day, or if the Fentanyl had caused the episode all on its own. "Why don't we move to the couch."

House tried to reapportion his weight and merely ended up leaning harder on Wilson. After that, he gave in and let his forehead drop to Wilson's shoulder, struggling to reign in his breathing.

Wilson urged him gently toward the couch. "Come sit down. Come on." They shuffled across the floor in an awkward sort of embrace, House's right leg halfway to useless; it buckled every time House stepped with it, and Wilson winced in sympathy. Times like this, he wished he had never asked House to try something other than Vicodin. At least the damnable bitter pills dulled these moments to something loopy and numb.

The second they were close enough, House dropped like a stone to the couch and seized his thigh, his cane falling forgotten to the floor at his feet. Wilson watched him dig his knuckles into the ruined limb, but it didn't help. With a bark of what otherwise would have been laughter, House made a frustrated fist and pounded it a few times against his leg. At that, Wilson turned away and grabbed the dirty coffee cup from the table just to have something to do. He couldn't stand to see House lose control, at the mercy of a damned medical screw up.

Wilson padded into the kitchen to escape the sight. He knew, as a doctor, that neuropathic pain felt similar to the pins and needles sensation when a limb falls asleep. Except it was a hundred times worse, to the point where it burned like frostbite, and any sensation was better than that. Anything to beat feeling back into it, though it wouldn't help; the pain wasn't due to a sleeping limb. It was in the nerves themselves. House knew that, of course; but there was nothing else for it. It hurt, and House couldn't just sit there and let it torture him.

After placing the coffee mug in the sink, Wilson came back and sat next to House on the couch. He kept a safe buffer zone between them, though; House may have let Wilson help him to the couch, but that didn't mean that he'd rescinded his _don't touch me_. With an inaudible sigh, Wilson rested his elbows on his knees and made a pretense of examining the fingernails on his right hand, which were silhouetted against the backdrop of the fireplace, while his left hand clawed at his cervical vertebrae. Beside him, House just sat bent over his bad thigh, rocking now and then; he seemed to do it unconsciously and then stop as soon as he noticed.

"Wilson?"

Wilson looked toward him, but he preferred the view on the coffee table. "Yeah?"

House hadn't sat up and his voice rasped between thin, forced breaths. He appeared frozen on the next cushion, quivering slightly with the effort of holding still. "You have to keep taking your meds."

Wilson gave him a bewildered look, his lips moving soundlessly for a second, brows drawn together. "Your leg hurts so much that _I_ need to take meds?"

House nodded, his eyes tightly shut, then bit out, "Your anti-depressants. The bottle's in the bathroom; you take them every night. I looked - there are twelve left. There were twelve left yesterday too. You forgot to take it before you came to bed."

"You…track my dosages?" Wilson couldn't help sounding incredulous. "Why?"

Before he responded, House sucked his lower lip between his teeth and swallowed a grunt. "Because when you're extra-specially blue, you start wearing sweater vests." He concealed his expression by intently watching the arm of the couch. "That geek look makes nurses swoon all over you, and you cope with depression by dropping your pants."

"Charming." Wilson pursed his lips and made an in-depth examination of his knuckles. When he cast a surreptitious glance to his right, he found House chewing his own bottom lip bloody. "Do you need another Vicodin? Would it help?"

House shivered and then blinked a few times before he risked meeting Wilson's gaze. His eyes wandered until they encountered the pills on the desk on the other side of the room. He appeared tempted, but then he hesitated, breathing heavily, his mouth open in limbo before he breathed, "No. I had three. Another wouldn't help."

Wilson nodded as he looked down at the floor between his bare feet. He didn't know if that response relieved or depressed him. "Okay. Look, I know this may not be the best time, but…" Wilson gestured at random with the hand not glued to the back of his neck and holding his head so that it hung down between his shoulders. "Is this…could the thing last night have caused this? Did something…I dunno…get hit, or – or fallen on?"

House snapped, "Why don't you just say it, Wilson. I got into a physical altercation with a gun-toting, homicidal freak. Stop trying to sugarcoat it."

"Yeah, okay. Sorry." He needed to pacify House, calm him down, but _something _had triggered this. If it were an injury that hadn't been treated yet, Wilson could take care of it. If it were psychosomatic…well. Maybe something could be done for that too. "But…_is_ it because of – of Lyamone?" If it weren't the fight, then it could just be the aftereffects, but Wilson didn't want to just come out and ask if the breakthrough episode were due to something other than physical strain.

But House was no idiot, and he saw right through that. "It's not in my head, I'm not imagining it!"

"I know that," Wilson came back. He tried to sound reasonable, to use his cancer doctor voice. "That doesn't mean it's not converted pain. Placebos have worked for you before, maybe not completely, but they _did_ decrease your pain."

House knew his cancer doctor knell all too well, and his outrage showed.

Wilson should have known better than to bring that up now. House wasn't a violent person, not even at his worst, but he could be volatile when he hurt this much. "It's not fake, House. I know it's not fake."

Something faded then, some vibrant part of House that Wilson loved to see, infuriating as it could be. And that scared Wilson more than the anger ever could. House looked away, more than just leg pain etched into the creases of his face, and stated, "I don't believe you." Just like that. Stark, no sarcasm; just a statement of fact huffed out on an abundance of pained carbon dioxide. House was always honest in his own sarcastic way, but he only ever got mean when he was in pain. It didn't mean that he would have refrained from saying it, were he feeling okay, but even House recognized the value of tact and misdirection, perhaps more so than most people.

Wilson opened his mouth to retort but the plain assertion took him off guard. He felt a tiny bit of hollowness trickle into his abdomen to linger somewhere in that place where hurt resides, tangled up with internal organs. "You…can't."

House lifted his head and blinked at Wilson's open face. House's eyes were bloodshot and sweat beaded on the stubble of his upper lip. House licked it off and then turned to gaze blankly at the dark television set. Eventually, he grumbled, "Whatever."

"House, treat this like a case, like it's not you. A horrible thing happened last night, something you were involved in. And you can't tell me this isn't affecting you – you _feel_ something for that – "

House interjected, "You're a prick."

And then Wilson gawped and fidgeted as House leaned over onto his left hip far enough to drag the hem of his pants down. "What are you doing? You…oh…_House_!" He reached to run his fingers over the livid bruise covering House's right hip and upper thigh, skimming over the skin as lightly as possible. "Why didn't you just _say_ that you – "

"Were you in the shower with me? Or was that Chase? I can't remember. There was a lot of flab involved though…Chase is pretty toned." House snorted, more or less, but he ruined the effect of his sarcasm by hiccupping over it as he pulled his pants back up. He didn't sit back up right away, too preoccupied with forcing himself to draw slow, even breaths. "Mmph."

Wilson breathed with him, pretty close to hyperventilating himself because he knew what reaction he was likely to get to his next suggestion. "If it's just the bruising, then the Vicodin and the gabapentin would have taken more of the edge off. House, I _know_ it hurts, I know it's practically a ten…that doesn't mean it's not converted pain, at least in part."

House barred his teeth, watery bloodshot eyes glaring up at Wilson from beneath darkened brows. "I'm not the one with the coping issues."

"Is that so." Wilson met House's steely gaze, silently asking him to reconsider the possibility. A faint scent on the air distracted Wilson, and it took a while for him to identify it; he so rarely smelled it outside of the hospital. Pain carried its own unique scent, something soft and subtle on the air, yet pungent for the simple fact that it didn't belong. Wilson had been around House so often over the past six months, permitted to be so physically close to him that Wilson knew that odor well – the hint of perspiration, the souring of the breath, the pheromones that it prompted the body to produce. He hardly noticed it anymore; plus, the scent was such a common component of his practice that he had long ago programmed himself to overlook it. Now, however, he felt bathed in it as he stared back at House, trying to keep his face open and pitiless for the sake of making himself useful.

House's cheek twitched as if he knew that Wilson could smell it, as if it took House down one more notch, though Wilson had no idea what scale they were using.

Since House seemed disinclined to make the next move, Wilson glanced aside, nervous ticks breaking out all over his body despite his best efforts not to betray his apprehension. Wilson leaned over, into House's personal space, and laid his hand over the one that House had left resting on his good thigh. House shied, but not much; it seemed reflexive. "This is just a form of avoidance. You're overcompensating because you care, because you don't want it to mean anything, and it scares the hell out of you to know that it does."

"Stop rationalizing! There's nothing to rationalize." House slipped his hand out from under Wilson's and slid over until he hit the armrest.

"Exactly." Wilson followed and grasped his wrist this time. "And that's the part you can't deal with."

"Wilson, don't. For once, this isn't about me. You're projecting – "

"House, I _know_ this is messing with your head. You watched a child get shot two feet in front of your face – you got brain tissue splattered all over your – " Wilson stopped himself as he realized he was choking over his tirade, and then his words registered. He stilled in shock, his face slack, eyes flickering over unseen portions of the room to his left. "I…uh…"

House peered at him with something suspiciously close to sympathy, but his eyes marred the look. They contained an uncharacteristic coldness, distance in distilled blue, bagged and puffy…he looked every bit the drug addict for once, though he had nothing in his system aside from the prescribed doses of his regular meds. House faced the dark television for a second, his eyebrows raised, and then offered, "Yeah. It sucks." He pressed his lips together and stuck them out, then puffed his cheeks. Air in the left cheek, switch the air to the right, nose wiggling like a rabbit's…

Wilson stared at him, and then burst out, "House, you could've been killed."

House blew the air out without totally parting his lips. He sounded like a child blowing raspberries. "So could you." House shot him a sidelong glance. "I _told_ you to stay put."

"House – "

"You made me want to let a kid die."

Wilson broke off, stunned.

"I wanted him to die so you wouldn't."

Wilson sighed, sucking on his teeth as he looked down. His voice weak and husky, Wilson said, "I know, House."

"No. You don't." House shifted beside him and hissed; something louder caught in his throat as he shut his eyes. Once he caught his breath again, he stated, "I can't be objective with you."

"You're not supposed to be objective with me." Wilson stopped short of telling House that he took that statement as a compliment; it wouldn't be well received.

"I have to be! When I lose perspective, bad things happen."

Wilson pursed his lips and swallowed before saying, "You're more than just your mind. There is more to you than intellect, House. You don't have to be a diagnostician twenty-four, seven. You're allowed to _feel_ something other than reason."

"That kid could still be alive. I was too worried about you – "

"Don't apologize for giving a damn!" Wilson started up off the couch and then fell back because House had recoiled from the sudden heat and volume of his voice, and his unexpected movement. Wilson made an anguished sound and dropped his forehead into his palms, his knees on his elbows, just breathing for a little while, trembling and cold. "Uhh…I don't feel so good."

House scoffed, but a second later, one huge hand showed up tentatively on Wilson's back, just over the dorsal surface of his heart. House patted him a few times, too firmly, and then let his palm rest there while Wilson struggled to breath evenly. House's thumb moved in slow circles over one particular vertebra, probably unconsciously. Then he undid whatever good that gesture had achieved by saying, "We shouldn't see each other anymore. It's gone too far."

Wilson gave a few slow blinks, seriously expecting something more than that, an explanation maybe, and then he cast his eyes helplessly toward the ceiling. "What am I supposed to do?" he asked, borderline whining. House had to give him something more than that, an ultimatum or negotiating points. Something, anything for Wilson to bounce back from. Nothing came, so Wilson looked over to find House rolling his cane between his hands with a pensive frown. "Define too far," Wilson demanded. He tried to pierce his brain through with a bit of clarity but he was exhausted and fraught, and all he could think was that House expected _Wilson_ to be the one left behind one day, dealing with House's death – not the other way around. "Is this because you're freaked out about last night? You're, what, protecting yourself from the possibility of losing me?"

"Oh, gimme a break. Everything has to be about you, doesn't it." House glowered at him. He seemed more animated than a few minutes ago, no longer attacking his own limb, but he was nowhere near himself. "Gonna make some toast."

Wilson gave a hurried nod. "Okay." He watched House with wide, hopeful eyes as House snatched his cane and then carefully navigated around the mess he had left on the floor; Wilson had not yet found enough impetus to pick it all up. House absenting himself to make toast – that wasn't a complete dismissal; if House really wanted to end the discussion, if there were no way for Wilson to talk him out of this, then he would throw Wilson out. As an afterthought, Wilson shot to his feet and called, "I'll help," as he followed House out.

House turned halfway back to glare at him. "I'm perfectly capable of making some damn toast."

"I know." Wilson shifted uncomfortably and snaked his hands into his scrubs pockets. "I just…want to be with you for a little while."

House grimaced and resumed his slow, lopsided walk to the kitchen. "Clingy doesn't do it for me."

"Yeah…got that." Wilson tagged along anyway. Then without warning, Wilson demanded, "What did I do this time? Why will you talk to Chase and my mom, but not me?"

"Your voice grates. I was looking for something in a more sultry register."

Wilson squinted at his back as they plodded into the kitchen. The retort came automatically. "That's my mom you're talking about."

House started to deliver some smartass comeback, but he stumbled and had to focus on catching himself on the kitchen island. Wilson grabbed House's elbow but House yanked himself free, straightened, and kept going. "I'm fine."

Wilson's head bobbled as he planted his hands on his hips and tried not to roll his eyes. "Uncoordination could point to an injury…maybe we missed something from the other day. You fought pretty hard – "

"Gabapentin!" House threw him an irritated look over his shoulder and then snatched a loaf of bread from the counter. "You're a doctor. Use your damn head once in a while."

Right. Vertigo. Wilson shut his eyes for a moment to gather whatever reserves he needed for this conversation.

After dropping two slices of bread into the toaster and depressing the plunger, House craned his neck to see Wilson over his shoulder. "I'm serious, by the way. I'm done."

"And ending our relationship is somehow going to make you happy?" Wilson pursed his lips and then took a few steps closer. "Stop deflecting."

"Oh, wow!" House twisted his upper body to give Wilson a truly hideous fake grin, his palms both still flattened against the countertop. "That is so cool – you're in so much denial that _I'm_ deflecting." He gave a sarcastic chuckle, completely humorless.

Wilson fumed for a second. He knew he should walk away – they didn't need to fight, not now, not over something stupid – but Wilson couldn't help himself. He needed House to be there, and he wasn't, and it was pissing him off. He spoke over his internal voice, which was pounding against the inside of his skull in a frantic bid to give him second thoughts. "Stop being an ass for one _second_ and just talk to me!" Wilson stepped closer, inside House's personal bubble, subject to secondary fidgeting the whole way. "You think sulking and giving me the silent treatment is going to fix anything?"

For once, House showed far more restraint than Wilson, and he drew a calming breath before he pivoted on his good leg to face Wilson, his hands braced against the countertop behind him. His eyes raked over Wilson in disdain, and then he snapped, "No. I _was_ talking. You told me to stop. That's actually fine with me; I get it if you can't talk about it, but don't turn around an hour later and make out like _I'm_ the one with the communication problem."

Wilson stared at him, flabbergasted and hurt and worried, and House just looked at him like _Wilson_ was the one being a jerk. And that made Wilson angry. He breathed out a shuddering, "Bastard. You described the wall as a paintball explosion – that's not talking!"

"It is for me." House puffed his cheeks out as he glanced away, and then he looked at Wilson with a cracked expression. His voice, however, had excess sarcasm seeping along the edges. "What do you expect, huh? You want me to sit around with a tub of cookie dough and tell you how I feel?"

Wilson forced his voice to some semblance of level. "Actually, yes; I want to know how you feel about it. I want to know what was going through your head when you curled up with my coat in the hallway, I want to know why you got rid of your stash – House, I'm _worried_ about you."

House regarded him, incredulous, and then his face darkened. "How the hell do you think I feel, you twit? It was great – let's do it all over again tomorrow." He straightened against the counter and apportioned a greater fraction of his weight onto his hands and his good leg. "You're the one refusing to deal. You disappeared for two hours to buy some soda when we already have plenty of Coke here, and then you have the gall to wonder why I called Chase? At least he was there. You never are – you run like a sissy little coward at the first sign of impending hardship."

"Stop it, House. I'm right here – I've _been_ here the whole time."

House bit his tongue long enough to will away the knee-jerk retort, and then he sighed, ducking his head. With the utmost care and, for House anyway, sympathy, House said, "You're not coping with this, Wilson. You're pretending it never happened, and you're upset because I'm not just bouncing along with you acting like everything's back to normal. And your insistence that I'm the fucked up party for needing time to get my head wrapped around it…that's pathetic. I can't just ignore it the way you apparently can."

Wilson shuffled in place, trying to just listen for once. It wasn't easy. "I'm not ignoring it. I'm just not…okay. I'm not okay with what happened and…yeah. I'm a little freaked out."

House took a preparatory breath, then looked aside as he nodded and went on. "I'm not good at this sort of crap, so just…" He bit his lip, gazing hard at the floor, and then started over. "Your brother's name was Danny. I know that half of what you're going through has nothing to do with the kid."

"House, I've known dozens of people named Danny."

Though House managed to stay reserved, his words cut like glass. "And how many of those people have you had to watch get their faces blown away?"

Wilson's mouth worked for a second, and then he swallowed with difficulty, blinking furiously at the toaster.

"I'm not mad at you for having your own problems," House offered, his voice gravelly at the uncomfortable turn in conversation. "I just…you're no use to me right now, and I can't…be there for you. You won't let me."

Wilson drew in a stuttered breath, considered addressing House's implication that Wilson himself was a misanthrope of some sort, and then decided to focus on House instead. "And clamming up and scaring the crap out of me by acting like you're contemplating suicide or something – you think _that's_ going to help matters?"

"I'm not suicidal."

Wilson glanced up to find House restlessly shifting his weight, in obvious distress over speaking with such frankness even though they both skirted around any actual blunt admittance of what their issues were. "Hey." Wilson held out a hand but didn't touch. "Deep breaths, House. Talking is good."

House heeded Wilson's admonition and gulped in some air. He reminded Wilson of one particular visit when House had tried rehab to thwart Tritter: awkward and irritated over that fact, yet at least a little bit sincere. Once he had a better handle on himself, House said, "The whole thing with Lyamone made me realize…I don't like where this is going, Wilson. I don't want to be here again."

"You don't want to be where, House?" Wilson stepped toward him but still, he didn't breech the barrier of space between them. "Tell me."

Almost too lowly for Wilson to catch, House whispered, "With you." His eyes flickered to Wilson's from under lowered brows that softened at the broken look on Wilson's face. He almost smiled, a sad uptilt of his lips meant to lend kindness to cruel truths. "I don't want to be with you."

Wilson stared back at House's open expression, stunned by the hope that he found there, House begging him in silence to just let it go amicably because this had all been a mistake even though Wilson _knew_ that House loved him, that it ran deep, that it hadn't waned in the slightest, and yet House didn't want it – how could House not want it? –

Wilson drew back far enough to slap House as hard as he could. His skin stung where it connected with the side of House's face, and Wilson balked as soon as he realized what he'd done. House staggered to the left, unprepared for the force of the blow, and caught himself on the corner of the counter, his good leg buckling under the demand of supporting House's full weight without warning. Wilson backed into the island and whispered, "Oh…god, I didn't…shit."

House just blinked for a second, his head flung aside, where Wilson's blow had snapped it. He drew several quick breaths and then made a concerted effort to clamp his lax jaw. When he didn't say anything in response – no anger, no throwing Wilson out, not even an exclamation of surprise – Wilson straightened, weak in the knees. House noticed his movement and swallowed, drawing himself up against the counter to give his left leg a reprieve. He breathed rapidly, his eyes shuttered, though Wilson thought that if House weren't so good at hiding behind his own face, he may have looked afraid.

"House?" Wilson took a step forward, his cheeks heated with shame.

House quaked for less than a heartbeat, his left hand twitching in an abortive move to perhaps ward Wilson off, but he forced his arm to remain at his side, out of Wilson's way. He wouldn't look up until the toaster popped, and then he jumped, nearly losing his footing as he slanted to the right. He gulped something back and then stilled again, his face averted, too submissive. Wilson's shame deepened, highlighted by the instant he realized that House was waiting for more, and that he wouldn't defend himself if it came. As he had said of Cuddy during her cruel practical joke war…let them punch themselves out and it'll end sooner.

Wilson's chest tightened to the point where, in any other circumstance, he would have chewed aspirin and called himself an ambulance. His eyes prickled and he could only stare at House's hunched form, the concerted way that House presented no threat to Wilson, no resistance, as if he expected this sort of thing and had resigned himself to being to sort of person who would always receive it from someone. His voice fractured and thin, Wilson rasped, "I didn't mean to. House, I didn't… Fuck. Say something."

"Sorry," House whispered between silent, panted breaths. His ribcage expanded with each short inhalation, quick as a rabbit's. His voice was that of a downcast, whipped little boy, soft and surprisingly gentle. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"No…" Wilson's eyes saucered and he had to look at the sink just to retain his tenuous composure. His breath hitched on a horrified sob, turning it into a very audible swallow, which House shut his eyes to cringe from. Wilson cupped both hands over his nose and mouth, able to do nothing aside from turn his back on House. Even the kitchen island reproved him as he stared blankly down at the soft whorls ingrained in the wood. "What have I done?" He didn't know who he was asking, since prayers came cheap to him anymore.

To Wilson shock, and his further mortification, House answered. "Nothing. You didn't do anything." He sounded defeated, and worse, like someone stomped so low that he had no interest in climbing back up again. There was something else there, too…awe. Traumatized wonder that Wilson had actually struck him.

Wilson's eyes burned with unshed tears, puffed and swollen; he could feel it. He bit his lip, his eyebrows falling to intersect between his eyes as he clamped his lids shut, head bowed. He managed to choke, "House – "

"I won't tell."

"Oh, god." Wilson buried his face in his palms. Getting hit by patients and relatives of patients, that was one thing. But House cared what Wilson thought of him – it mattered when Wilson lashed out. God, he was as bad as House's dad. No, worse. "I am _so_ sorry."

"Yeah." House's words came slowly, subdued. "I know." That, however, didn't make him sound any less dejected. John House had probably apologized too, at least sometimes. 'Sorry' didn't necessarily constitute sincere regret; it was just a word. Anyone could say it. Hesitantly, House said, "I'm gonna go back to bed." Then he waited long enough to be certain that Wilson had no objection to that. "Um…okay."

Wilson didn't lift his head, but his eyes slid aside to watch House shuffle from the room, moving carefully on his tingling leg. Once the wall occluded Wilson's view, Wilson sagged over the island and dropped his head into his arms. How could he have hit him? After everything they'd been through, and everything he'd learned, how could Wilson have hit him? He wished House were still railing at him, still clomping across the floor, gasping and cursing – anything but silently retreating to his room with a welt on his cheek that conformed to the shape of Wilson's hand.

After thinking in a daze for a few seconds clouded by the imprinted vision of House's face, Wilson fumbled in his pocket for House's cell phone. Chase answered on the last possible ring and mumbled in a sleepy voice, "_Go to Hell, House. It's not even dawn._"

"It's Wilson." Wilson swallowed as hard as he could but the lump remained settled firmly between his tonsils, chopping his voice up into slivers. "Come over."

"_Wilson?_" The line crackled, Chase's receiver rubbing up against sheets and probably the side of his face as he moved around. "_What happened? Are you okay?_"

"I don't know what to do." Wilson snuck a glance over his shoulder; he could still picture it, the clap of his hand meeting flesh, the throb in his palm… "Please, come over." He blocked his view of the empty space behind him by ducking down in front of his own shoulder, unable to abide contemplating what he'd just done.

"_Okay._" Chase's voice bobbed over the line and Wilson heard a drowsy, inquisitive murmur drift over the phone line – Cameron. Chase made some muted excuse and then told Wilson, "_Just stay there, okay? I'm coming._"

"Okay." Wilson shook on his feet, his free hand pressed to his right ear to block any other sounds, just in case House came back or yelled something or rustled or…or anything.

"_I'm hanging up now, Wilson. Stay put._"

Wilson nodded dumbly as the line clicked, and then he flipped the phone shut. It fell with a clatter to the island and Wilson flattened both palms on the cool wood, terrified by the silence raging through the apartment. He didn't register the passage of time until he heard tentative knocking, and then Chase fit the spare key into the lock and pushed the door open far enough to stick his head in. When he saw Wilson sprawled half over the island, Chase's brow furrowed. He came all the way in, closed the door behind him, and then came to a halt behind the couch. "Wilson? Where's House?"

Wilson blinked and shook his head, unable to work up enough to saliva to speak without croaking. He pointed instead and Chase threw a concerned glance down the hall.

"Wilson, what happened? Is House okay?" From his owl-eyed, sick expression, Chase assumed the worst – that he had come here to verify that House's body was lying somewhere in the depths of the apartment. It was probably a safe assumption, considering Wilson's shell-shocked silence. Chase took several halting steps forward and demanded, his voice thready, "Wilson, tell me what happened."

"I didn't mean to." Wilson couldn't stop the aimless babble even though he knew it wouldn't make any sense to Chase.

"God." Chase spun around and all but ran down the hall, trying doors and finding the closets and bathroom before he got to the bedroom. Wilson heard him say House's name on a whoosh of relieved air, and then nothing made its way back to kitchen except a low din of voices.

Wilson hung his head between his shoulders, his fingers clasped to reduce how they shook, and then he gradually found himself sliding to the floor. He ended up in a heap on the tiles, his legs extended as far as they could go in the cramped space between the island and the sink, his back pressed to the shelf holding pots and pans and baking sheets so that the edge dug in beneath his shoulder blades. He stayed there, his unseeing gaze trained on the cabinet directly in front of him, the memory of House's averted face swimming in front of him until Chase stormed back into the kitchen.

"You hit him?" Chase demanded, incredulous. He kept his voice as hushed as possible, though, probably to spare House. "You _hit_ him? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"He told you?" For some reason, Wilson had expected House to lie rather than admit that Wilson, his best friend and bed fellow, had struck him in a fit of anger.

"No," Chase replied, his tone rendered into a furious hiss. "No, I asked him where the mark on his cheek came from since I didn't remember seeing it earlier, and he wouldn't answer. So I asked him if Lyamone made it, and he shook his head, and then I asked him if _you_ made it… God _dammit_ – you're a bloody imbecile!"

"It's…there's a mark?" Wilson had seen the red splotch, but he hadn't thought he'd struck that hard.

"Yeah," Chase hissed. "_Your_ handprint."

Wilson covered his mouth, suddenly sick to his stomach, and squinched his face up as far as it would go while he breathed harshly through his nose. He was shaking his head before he realized it, which didn't help settle his broiling innards, and then he gasped, "It was an accident – we were arguing – I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't." He sucked in several ragged breaths and then said, "He should call the police and report me."

Chase scoffed and threw an exasperated glance at the ceiling. "He's not gonna file charges against you, Wilson. Don't be an idiot." He paused to regard the pitiful sight on the floor near his feet and then snapped, "And quit feeling sorry for yourself! You have no right."

"You should've seen his face," Wilson broke in, unable to help himself. "Chase, he just stood there and waited for more. I could've beat him to a bloody pulp and he wouldn't have fought me."

Chase ran a weary hand over his mouth and jaw, and then rolled his eyes as he dropped to crouch beside Wilson. "Did you apologize?"

"John apologized. Sorry's a lie."

"Okay." Chase was clearly annoyed. "Did you explain _why_ you hit him?"

Wilson merely shook his head.

"John did that too, huh?" Chase flared his nostrils, his lips pressed into an uneven line, uncombed hair mopped all about his head. "Alright. Here's what's gonna happen. House said his backpack and all his meds are at the hospital. You're gonna go get them, and I'm gonna stay here. Got it?"

Wilson threw him a baleful look, pale even from the inside, and nodded. "Okay. I can do that."

"Good." Chase straightened with little effort and strode away, shaking his head. A moment later, the bedroom door snicked shut.

Wilson remained on the floor for almost a full minute, trying to muster up the will to move. The recollection that House was in agony right now, suffering from neuropathic pain with no rescue medications on hand, finally spurred him forward. If nothing else, Wilson could help with that. He needed some time away from the apartment anyway, which Chase probably knew, otherwise he would not have told Wilson to leave like that. Escape was for cowards, and House hated cowards above all else, but Wilson ran anyway. He couldn't help being what he was, a questing knight in a cave confronting his own reflection. Wilson grabbed his keys and his wallet and metaphorically screamed the whole way out.

--TBC


	22. Chapter 22

By the time Wilson returned, dawn had not only broken, but given way to noon. He brought lunch with him even though there was plenty of food in the refrigerator from the bar he had stopped at last night; Wilson simply had this inexplicable urge to feed people. He lugged a huge paper bag of Chinese food from House's favorite place into the apartment along with House's backpack and a six-pack of beer. Wilson wanted to get completely piss-assed drunk, but that would be irresponsible and yet another proof of his cowardly inability to face reality. He couldn't get himself into too much trouble with a trifling six bottles of cheap generic beer off a gas station shelf, because if he _did _get wasted, he'd be apt to tell House incriminating things that he shouldn't – like how he had met Cameron in the hallway and how she'd hugged him because he must have looked _that_ pitiful, and how he'd inhaled the scent of her hair and then had to break contact _really_ fast so that he didn't embarrass himself. He figured it was Murphey's Law: House had said Wilson was in imminent danger of dropping his pants to make himself feel better, and now his gaze accordingly wandered to appraise every female that crossed his path. And damn if he'd let House find out about it. He didn't want to cheat; he just wanted House back, _his _House, smiling again with that devious little twinkle in one eye.

The living room was empty but Wilson could hear voices; from the quality of the echo, he guessed that House and Chase were in the bathroom. And then House's furious voice cut through the still air, one degree short of shrill. For a man, anyway. "How could you just let him leave?" Chase tried to placate him, his words too low to reach the living room, and then House barked, "No – this is _my_ apartment – _I'm_ the only one who gets to kick people out of it! Preferably with steel-toed boots or golf spikes."

Wilson left the front door open and crept forward, his arms still full of bags, listening intently. He should feel guilty for spying on his own partner…maybe ex partner…but he didn't. House must have rubbed off on him more than he realized.

"Can you really blame me?" That was Chase, getting all defensive and protectively righteous. "House, he hit you. You wouldn't say anything about it – for all I knew, he – "

"Oh, please," House scoffed. "Who the hell would think Wilson's abusive? He irons his boxers. I know hamsters more destructive than him."

Chase could be heard muttering to himself as he backed off a bit, and then he started talking again in that low, quavering but controlled voice that probably came accompanied by a hand on his waist and another in the air to symbolically hold off House's inevitable arguments. "House, when he called, I seriously thought I was coming here to ID your body. Okay? He was _so_ far beyond spooked… And you weren't much better."

"I was in pain," House snapped, sullen. "I couldn't think straight anymore." He paused, then burst out with, "And that's still no excuse for making him leave. You could tell he was freaking out – that didn't give you a clue that maybe he shouldn't be alone?"

Incredulous, Chase barked, "Did you miss the part where he _hit you_?"

"Will you stop bringing that up?"

"No. House, maybe you don't realize – "

House all but exploded at that point; Wilson could hear him as clearly as if he were standing in the living room. "I _do_ realize! I know what an abusive relationship is like, _Chase_. I don't need some second rate doctor telling me what's appropriate and what constitutes a bad touch." House had obviously tried for scathing sarcasm on that last bit, but it fell stale. He shifted around in the bathroom, his cane striking the floor, and then he lowered his voice in remorse. "He was just startled. I should've known he wouldn't take it well; Wilson doesn't know how to lose people."

Chase sighed. "You're making excuses for him now. You realize that, right? No, don't give me that look, House. Just see it from my perspective, okay? Listen to yourself."

"Chase, will you stop it? He was off his meds, he's…messed up right now."

"What meds?" More footsteps sounded in the bathroom. House probably pointed to Wilson's prescription, and then Chase exclaimed in a hushed tone, "Wilson's on anti-depressants? Why?"

"Dunno. He won't tell me."

"How long?"

House probably shrugged, and Wilson heard his cane bouncing patterns on the bath mat.

"Seriously? I figured you would've stolen his psych file by now."

"He's not actually in therapy." House let out a long, tired sigh. "He's just having a rough time right now."

"And you're not?"

House snarked, "Did you miss the part where he was in the room with me, watching some kid get his brains blown out?"

Wilson flinched automatically, one hand balling around a fistful of hair at the back of his neck.

Chase retorted, "He's not the one who ended up catatonic on the floor."

"Wilson processes things differently. It makes him feel better to take care of somebody."

"House…you were hugging a suit jacket like your life depended – "

"I had a flashback." House said it too quickly, as if he hoped that Chase wouldn't notice the words. "It's not a big deal."

They didn't say anything for a little while, and Wilson slunk farther into the apartment so that he could set the Chinese down without making a racket. Damn food was heavy.

And then House snapped, "Why do you care, anyway? I insult you all the time, I even punched you in the lobby. You hate me. Any normal person would be thrilled to find out Wilson took a swing at me."

Almost too softly to hear, Chase countered, "I don't hate you, House." He paused, probably trying to catch House's eye to gauge his mood in response to that; Wilson could well imagine the doubtful, mistrusting expression that would pervade House's eyes. Then Chase asked amidst a sigh, "Do you remember me coming into your bedroom this morning?"

House must have made some sort of nonverbal response, but there was no telling what.

Chase went on. "You'd been crying. You wouldn't look at me – you flinched when I touched you."

"I flinch when _any_body touches me without asking," House countered. "I don't like it."

Chase ignored his interjection, but Wilson straightened a bit to analyze it while Chase went on. "Wilson said you didn't fight back; he said he could've beaten you to a pulp, and you would've let him. House…you may know where the line is, but…you wouldn't be able to stop somebody if they crossed it. At least, not somebody like Wilson."

"There's nothing going on," House insisted, irritated but also supremely uncomfortable. "He's never done that before. He just gets scared when he thinks he's losing someone he loves, and there wasn't anything harmless to throw."

"Nothing to throw. House…" Chase made an incredulous sound, then pointed out, "You broke up with him, and he hit you. How else am I supposed to interpret that?"

House grumbled something unintelligible, and then snarked, "Why isn't anyone worried about _him_? Wilson's about as dangerous as a burlap sack full of kicked puppies, and yet he hit me. Obviously, something's wrong with him. Why isn't somebody looking out for him, or wondering why he snapped, or trying to calm _him_ down? Did you even stop for a second and wonder what's been going through _his_ head? You people always hang him out to dry like he doesn't ever need help, or you're too good to bother with him. And now he's disappeared."

"He hasn't disappeared," Chase assured him. "I just sent him to get your meds."

"Then where the hell is he?" House yelled. "He left before dawn – it's almost two o'clock now. He's not himself, he's upset, he probably thinks I hate him now too or something, he's behind on his meds…no way he should've been out driving around like that. Why am I the only one who's worried about him? Why can't anybody else see that he's about one more mess away from falling apart?" House made a frustrated noise; if it registered that he was expressing an uncharacteristic level of concern, and doing so in front of a former underling, it didn't show in his continued tirade. "When things get to him, he runs away. Amber was just the latest. He's _not_ okay right now. At least when I'm depressed, everybody knows it; I do it in public, I play mean jokes on people and harass nurses, pop pills to distract myself from it… Wilson falls alone. Nobody notices when he gets close to the edge because all they see is this perfect little smiley-faced, well-adjusted oncologist. If he ever… Nobody would know if he wanted out. He's too good at hiding it. At least I get help for it, maybe by insane methods, but for the most part, I _don't_ want to die. Wilson, on the other hand…" House sighed, deflating from halfway across the apartment, and then House admitted, "He said once that all he had was his job and our friendship. That's sweet in a really nauseating, rot your teeth sort of way, but it's not healthy. And I took one of them away last night. Or at least, he thought I did." He paused, and then added in as low a tone as possible, "He'll take pills, but he's a doctor – that much is just occupational habit. I don't think he could actually ask for help if he needed it."

Wilson stood beside the desk in the open doorway, stunned. He had always assumed that House stalked him for his own selfish amusement or out of boredom, or because Wilson was part of his comfort zone and House couldn't abide things changing. Could there have been an element of dysfunctional concern to all of that? It certainly explained the private eye better than Wilson's earlier belief that House was just that obsessed with him. But Wilson had never found House's antics creepy; anyone else in Wilson's position should have, and yet he thought such things to be endearing, if odd. He had always sort of coveted House's attention to him, as if on some level, he knew why House behaved that way. To keep an eye on him, to…protect him. Because Wilson would have protested him doing it by any other means. And House never would have dared to care so openly. No matter what Wilson was going through, House had always shadowed him, always followed just close enough that Wilson knew he had an unacknowledged lifeline if he ever needed it.

Wilson didn't know if they had kept on talking in the bathroom, but the next thing he heard was Chase's awed realization, "You love him."

The dismissive shrug came through in House's words. "Who doesn't?"

"No, you _love_ love him," Chase said. Wilson could practically hear House fidgeting in embarrassment, and then Chase demanded, "Then why did you break up with him?"

"It's safer that way."

Chase snorted.

"I can be there for him if I'm just his jerk friend," House said, defensive. "That's more important than letting him snuggle me or putting up with his snoring."

Fondly, Chase replied, "You're an idiot. He loves you too."

"I know." House made a sound like he was puffing air around in his cheeks. "That's why he hit me."

Nobody said anything after that, and Wilson hardly even breathed, poised near the mouth of the hallway.

Chase let out a disappointed sigh. "You really believe that, don't you. You really think that him hitting you is the ultimate proof of his feelings toward you." Maybe House shrugged at that. Chase's voice softened considerably, resigned as he asked, "Do you want me to go find him for you?"

"Yes." A wealth of something un-House-ish came out in that single word, dread and swallowed pride, and much more. Only House could infuse one lone syllable with so many different emotional concepts that normally came foreign to him.

Wilson looked down for a second, mulling over a vat of new information and trying to incorporate it in with the events of the past several months. Then he shrugged House's backpack off his shoulder, eased it to the floor as well, and stepped back so that he could slam the door. On top of that, he called, "Hello?" as if they still might not know that he was there.

It sounded like the two of them covered up evidence of some illicit act before Chase emerged from the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind him; there was probably sappy residue all over the bathroom from House giving a damn. Chase shuffled down the hallway, shoving his hands into his pockets on the way. He started to say one thing, then sidetracked to blurt out, "House is peeing blood."

Wilson blinked and then adjusted his shoulders as he drew back, his arms dangling at his sides.

"Probably just a bruised kidney, but you should get him a CT. If, you know. You can manage to drag him in for one." Chase sucked in another uneasy breath. "And I'm sorry. I guess I might have overreacted."

Wilson dropped his eyes and made a bland face at the wallboard. His hand had found the back of his neck again, like it belonged there and should just be sown in place – stupid wandering fingers. Wilson shrugged as he sidestepped Chase to get at the kitchen. Without turning, Wilson offered, "Not a problem. It's good that you were looking out for him."

Chase followed after a brief hesitation. "He's cutting himself."

It took a second for that to sink in, and then Wilson backed around to peer at him.

"He doesn't think I noticed," Chase added.

Wilson nodded a few times without any helpful input from his brain. "Where?"

"Inner left thigh." Chase chewed the inside of his cheek as if he would prefer to have a pencil to gnaw.

"Was it because of his leg? The… He said it was neuropathic pain." Wilson rolled his eyes to the side; that detail hardly mattered in this context. "He's done that before…the gating mechanism thing."

Chase gave a nervous, rueful laugh. "Yeah. Maybe." Then his expression soured. "I convinced him to take the Fentanyl a little while ago. I didn't know if you'd make it back any time soon."

Wilson's eyebrows bobbled and he cast a reproving glance at himself. There was no way to undo his disappearance. "And it worked? He's okay?"

"Yup." Chase took a few aimless steps closer. "He's hardly had any Vicodin this morning. I guess that confirms that he overdosed last time."

Wilson shut his eyes and nodded, exhausted. "Yeah."

Chase made a few random faces, then asked, "Where were you?"

"Therapist." The lie came too smoothly to him, but he hardly wanted to admit that he had been hiding on his balcony at the hospital for over six hours, trying to blink at the sun. Wilson's eyes flickered up to Chase's for a bare moment, then retreated to the refrigerator. "It's an informal thing. She isn't keeping any records of it."

Chase scrutinized his body language for a moment. "You were listening to us, weren't you."

"Not for long, but…yeah." Wilson tapped his foot a few times and then pretty much catapulted himself into action. "I got Chinese. You can stay for a while. There's enough to feed an army."

Chase caught his arm as he whizzed by and Wilson was trying to pull free before he realized what he was doing. Then he stilled, and Chase slid in front of him. "Are you okay?"

The laugh was out before Wilson could stop it. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." It was disconcerting to be intimidated like that by a guy several inches shorter than him.

Unconvinced, Chase adjusted his posture, then gave Wilson a penetrating look. "House doesn't think you are. And he knows you better than anyone."

Wilson's face pulled down out of farcical mirth, and then he averted his gaze. "I'm…maybe…no. No," he finally decided, though he whispered it in the hopes that nobody would hear. "House is right. As usual." He shot Chase a wry sort of grimace that he meant to be a smile. His face didn't make it that far, though, so Wilson let it collapse again. He studied a corner of the doorway as Chase let his arm go.

Trying to adopt a doctor's tone, Chase asked, "How not okay are you?"

Wilson merely shrugged, his eyelids drooping in a lazy blink. "I don't know."

Chase nodded, then glanced around uneasily. "I have a surgery at four this afternoon. Foreman could probably stop by, though."

Wilson shot him a dry smirk. "We don't need babysitters." He let his bemused gaze linger on Chase as he made for the backpack in the floor. After scrounging around for House's black zipper bag, Wilson announced, "House is overdue for his meds. You can stay for an early dinner, if you want. I'll be right back."

"Actually, I don't have time. Have to scrub in, review the case notes… You know."

Wilson paused on his way to the hall and tilted his head to regard Chase.

Chase wandered a few steps closer, digging his hands farther into his pockets. Then he fidgeted for a second, pulled them out, and hugged Wilson. It was a manly hug, yes, but Wilson still stiffened in surprise, House's little satchel of meds clutched in one hand. Chase released him before he could think to hug back, and held Wilson out at arm's length. "Okay. I have to go now." He sort of patted Wilson's shoulder before offering him a queasy smile, one corner of his mouth lifted. Then he enjoined, "Talk to House. Please. He's worried about you." Then Chase turned heel and grabbed his jacket before getting out of there like he might catch something from lingering in the room.

Wilson watched Chase leave with a bewildered little half smirk, then hmphed to himself as he turned toward the bathroom. "House? I've got your pills. You're due for – "

"Not until you take yours."

Wilson blinked at the closed bathroom door, straining his ears in the hopes of figuring out what House was doing in there. "What?"

House yanked open the door, then started to find Wilson poised right on the threshold. He recovered in a blink and edged past him. From the bedroom doorway, House called, "I'm not taking anything until you take your anti-depressants."

Wilson blinked a few times and studied the worn floorboards. He knew that House's threat would only last until the Fentanyl wore off, but House probably knew that too. It was the meaning behind the threat that mattered. Wilson sighed and wandered into the bedroom as well, then propped his shoulder against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest, black medicine bag cradled in the crook of his elbow. He watched House gingerly settle onto the edge of the bed, most of his sitting weight on his left hip. He was wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and running shorts, but Wilson glimpsed the edges of the bruising that ended just above his right knee. Once House stopped squirming into a more or less comfortable position, Wilson decided to risk saying, "You know, whether or not we sleep together and I coerce cuddles from you, you'll still be my jerk friend."

House glanced up, surprised for less than a bare second. Then he scowled and looked away to accuse, "Eavesdropper."

"Not on purpose," Wilson replied. "I heard you yelling when I walked in and it just seemed natural to keep listening."

House frowned at him, but couldn't manage to maintain the indignation in his gaze. He started to rub at his leg, but hissed the second he touched it and fisted the pillow beside him instead.

Wilson angled off of the door jamb and plopped down next to him, though he sat an appreciable distance away, his hip brushing the footboard. "Neuropathy finally wore off?"

"Yeah." House nodded to underscore that, and glared at his own leg. "Fucking bruised all over the damn place. Chase thinks I should get it x-rayed to make sure I didn't chip the bone or anything."

"It couldn't hurt to check," Wilson agreed. "You have less muscle to cushion your femur." As if House weren't perfectly aware of that, being a doctor himself and all. Wilson glanced at the frustrated man beside him; House twisted the pillowcase in one hand to keep himself from trying to massage his thigh and make himself feel worse. "You need a CT anyway to see how bad your kidney is."

"Yeah. PET scan will have to wait now. All this crap will affect the results." House made a face at the floor, then glanced aside to meet Wilson's eyes. "You didn't come back."

Wilson clasped his hands around House's medication bag. "I just got sidetracked, House." The conversation he had overheard when he walked into the apartment floated back to him in little pieces, highlights of the important parts. Without looking at House, Wilson started to talk. "You know, they say that people who have an actual plan for it are less likely to act on it. Just knowing that they have a way out is usually enough for them to be able to suffer through whatever they've got going on. It's…cathartic to know that if it ever gets to be too much, then there's an escape, and it lessens the anxiety, the…drowning feeling. It makes a person less trigger happy, so to speak. It's the ones who have no way out that you have to worry about." Wilson let his eyes track over to House's still figure to encounter blue eyes piercing him in silence.

When Wilson didn't offer anything more, House drew a careful breath and then said, his voice gruff, "You're talking about suicide."

Wilson nodded and licked his lips. He needed to ask, and he needed House to follow his logic for once because House was probably right about him, in what he had said to Chase. "Do you…have one? Um…an escape plan?"

House's eyes flit across the wall in front of them, then reluctantly alit back on Wilson. "Yeah. I don't really like the thought of dying but just in case the leg gets too bad or my liver finally craps out…yeah. If I have to die, I just want to do it on my own terms." He gave a convulsive swallow and failed to hold Wilson's gaze. "Do you have one?"

Wilson wet his lips, tongue cottony and stuck behind his teeth, then croaked, "No." He shot House a pointed glance, holding just long enough to verify that his message had been received and understood, and then he faced forward again to blow it off.

"Okay," House whispered. His eyes kept tripping their way over to Wilson without resting long enough to see much, just a series of still life glimpses that didn't change. "Would you…say something? Would you even know if you…meant to…?" House's voice dropped off, too fumbled to continue.

Wilson looked down and shrugged, moving his shoulders back and forth opposite each other instead of up and down, perhaps shaking off the gravity of the conversation, or the implications, or the concept entirely. "I take medication for it. It's been enough so far."

House nodded too readily and mumbled, "Okay," again.

Wilson tried to skim over that by changing the subject. "I need to ask you something, and don't just say what you think I need to hear. I don't want you doing anything just because you're afraid of how I'll take it."

House's brow crinkled, eyes narrowed. "Take what?"

Wilson forced himself to speak past the lump in his throat. "Did…did you mean it last night? That you don't want to be with me anymore?" Wilson hurried to add, "It's okay if you don't. It's just…you've said it more than once lately, and I don't want you to stay in this just because you think you owe me or you think – "

"What we're doing to each other isn't healthy." House refused to look at him, fixating instead on the pillow, which he had drawn into his lap and was busy worrying between hyperactive fingers. "I don't know if…" He took a frustrated breath, then said, "I feel trapped." Then he made a valiant effort to smirk. "Do I get cookie dough now?"

Wilson huffed out a sudden laugh, helpless to resist House's lopsided, self-conscious grin. "Yeah. I'll get you a tub next time I go out." He sobered quickly. "Our friendship has always been dysfunctional at best."

"Yeah," House agreed. "As a friendship, it's interesting. As more, it's just…destructive. Look at the last month. Ever since we've sort of gone serious, it's been getting worse."

Wilson nodded, but only because he had no way of refuting that. "What do you want to do?"

House shrugged, seemingly irritated at his own indecision. "I dunno, Wilson. I haven't been here in a while. I didn't want to be."

"I know." Wilson wanted to sound upbeat and understanding, but he could hear the rejection in his own voice. He wasn't Stacy, but to House, the feelings of fondness and betrayal were irrevocably intertwined. "I can't help but think… You've compared me to John a couple of times now, and last night when…you know." Wilson sucked in a fresh breath. "You just stood there like…like you weren't allowed to fight back, and I know you've gotten into fights before, so it's not like you're a hopeless pacifist, just… It was something you would've done with him."

House gave an exasperated sigh, then snapped, "Will you quit reading into things? My dad wasn't like that – he didn't just… He only went over the line that way once, Wilson."

Wilson dared to give him a sidelong look. "So he went over the line _other_ ways on a regular basis, then? What's your baseline on punishments? Because I'm pretty sure I'd be appalled to know what you consider an 'acceptable' beating."

House could've bored holes into Wilson's corneas if he had stared even one tenth of a degree harder. "What, like your dad never took a belt to you?"

"No. Mom used to spank us if we did something really bad, but dad just…couldn't." Wilson bit his lip but kept looking at House, wondering why he had never pieced it together before, about David. "He tried, once. I was eight. I wanted to go to the carnival and he said he didn't have time to drive all of us, so I got it through my thick head that it would be a good idea to steal his car and drive my brothers there with me." Wilson smiled a little bit. "I crashed into the fence post at the end of the driveway. Michael got a concussion, Danny just banged up his shoulder. My dad was so mad." He chuckled at the memory; enough years had passed for it to be harmless and amusing, though he never would have thought it funny at the time. "After we got back from the ER, dad took off his belt and got me over his knee, but he couldn't do it. He just started crying and hugging me and apologizing. It was…really weird. I remember it sort of freaked me out. Mom sent me to bed when she walked in and saw what happened. I got grounded for a month instead."

House glared at him for a second, then muttered, "Freak," as he looked away.

Wilson balked. "What, just because my parents didn't ever beat the crap out of me, I'm a freak?"

"No, you're a freak because even with a fuzzy scrapbook-worthy childhood, you turned out royally screwed up."

Wilson narrowed his eyes but didn't respond in kind for once. "What was normal for you?"

"Shut up, Wilson. And take your damn pills so I can take mine."

"You know, it really bothers me." Wilson cut him off with a palm flattened in mid air. "Not that you won't talk about it; you can clam up however much you want. What bothers me is you didn't even try to fight back last night. I need to know that you can, House. I need to know that if I'm ever that much of an asshole again, you'll do something about it. Because I'm _not_ John, and I can't stand the thought of you just letting me treat you like that."

House rolled his eyes in an arc that swept the ceiling before falling to Wilson. "What do you want me to do, Wilson? Punch you?" He leaned over and made his mock sympathetic face, the really obnoxious one. "Would that make you feel better?"

Wilson glared right back. "Maybe. At least I'd know you _could_ punch me."

House's face blanked out and he drew back too quickly to mask his unease with that response. Annoyed and self-conscious, he muttered, "God, you have more daddy issues than I do."

"I'm just making a point, House."

House's pillow-fidgeting grew more focused, his brows falling lower over his eyes. "I'm not gonna punch you. Get over it."

Like that ever stopped Wilson. "You can't let people take liberties with you just because you love them too much to risk hurting them back."

"_I didn't love him!_"

Wilson recoiled until the footboard dug into his back, staring in shock as House threw himself toward the headboard in an effort to hide the scarlet flush blooming across his face or the trembling of his hands clenched in the pillow. Slowly, Wilson edged toward him, brushing sheets out of the way as he scooted across the mattress. "House?"

House folded over and stuffed his face into the pillow, his back to Wilson, shaking and breathing way too hard.

"Hey, calm down." Wilson reached for House's biceps, intending to pull him off of the pillow since he seemed to be making a concerted effort to suffocate himself.

House let Wilson drag him back a bit, but then he shook Wilson's hands off and hunched low over his own lap, his right leg folded in front of him on the bed, left still braced on the floor. "I'm fine."

Wilson laughed at that, though it sounded kind of mean. "No you're not." Then he reached out again and this time wrestled House into an embrace, House's spine curved in against Wilson's stomach, fighting the whole way.

Once Wilson had his arms cinched around his chest, though, House stilled, his respirations evening out. "You don't…get it. I can't feel that. It's bad."

Wilson's eyebrows plummeted. "What is?"

"That…_that_. I can't."

"What, love? You're not allowed to feel love? Why the hell do you think that?"

House just blinked for a second, then sniffed and turned his face back to Wilson. He lifted his chin and bit his lip, watching the arm bent across his chest, and then he let out a mirthless laugh as if he had truly expected nothing less, and was now a fool for hoping. "Get out."

"What?" He stared back at House, bewildered, and then declared rather sedately, "No."

"Just leave." House splayed his elbows, attempting to break Wilson's grip on him, but Wilson wouldn't give. Impotent and furious all of a sudden, House yelled, "I don't want you here!"

Wilson held on despite House's attempt to twist free. "House, stop. Just breathe for a minute – stop it!"

"Wilson – " House dug his nails in underneath Wilson's fingers, and the next thing Wilson knew, House had dragged him to the door and thrust him out into the hall.

Wilson tripped over himself and then sprawled all over the floor in an agonized heap, fire spiking up his lower back and down through his tailbone, exacerbating the earlier injury, and House slammed the bedroom door on him. Wilson wheezed in an effort to keep himself from crying out, unable to move for the pain in his backside, his eyes tearing. His voice came out on a gasp. "House."

Inside the bedroom, Wilson heard House thump back against the door and then his cane clattered to the floor and House slid down the planking to plop heavily onto the floorboards alongside it. Wilson watched the shadows flutter under the door as House leaned back. Then silence descended over them both.

Wilson struggled to sit up and plant his palms on the door, knowing that House's shoulders were situated mere inches from him. "House…" It came out as more of an exasperated groan than anything else. Wilson plunked his head against the wood and breathed through two kinds of pain, one physical and one borne of knowing that his well intentioned words had just wrought something terrible. "What just happened? What did I do?" He listened to House's irregular panting, then demanded, "Talk to me!"

"Just go away," House called, his voice raspy. "I don't wanna hurt you."

Wilson shook his head in self-recrimination and clamped his eyes shut. "Okay – okay, I shouldn't have said I wanted you to punch me. I'm an ass, that's cool, so tell me off or whatever, just open up." Wilson pounded weakly on the door, wishing he had even a clue as to what had really set House off. "Please… House, _please_…"

"You don't understand!" House yelled. "It mattered – Wilson, he was gonna shoot you and I didn't care."

Wilson choked over his breathing. "House!" When had they started talking about the kid? What did anything have to do with that?

"I would've given him the kid, I didn't care…" House thumped his head back against the door, and again, harder. "You have to leave. I can't…do that, I can't."

Wilson sucked in a few shallow gasps. For a moment, he had thought that House meant he didn't care whether or not _Wilson _ended up getting shot. "I know. House, that's okay. Nobody blames you for feeling that way."

"I can't see you anymore." House's apartment door muffled his voice, but not enough to conceal how choppy his words had become. "I can't be that person, Wilson, _please_ don't ask me to."

"What person?" Wilson rose up on his knees in front of the door and pressed his forehead to the cool wood. "The kind who gives a crap when their best friend follows him into a hostage situation like a moron and then…" Wilson gathered a new angle along with his breath. "You're allowed to place a greater value on the life of someone you love, House – it's human. There's nothing wrong with that. I know it sounds heartless, but you're allowed to make that choice."

"No! I'm supposed to keep people safe, and save them, and do what's right – I'm not supposed to care! If I care, then I'm not objective, and then I make stupid decisions, and people get hurt!" House took a shuddering breath, so loud and uneven that even through the door, Wilson could hear it. "You're not safe."

"God, House… I know, I know I hit you, but…_please_ believe me. I'm not going to hurt you and I'm not gonna abandon you, I swear. I'm safe."

House burbled out a mirthless laugh and then said, "You don't get it." There was a wealth of fear and disappointment mingled in that statement; Wilson was missing something, and House didn't understand how Wilson could be so blind.

Wilson panted for a minute, expecting more, but when House just sat there on the other side of the door, Wilson labored to his feet. Ignoring the fire in his back, he fumbled to shove the door open, but House must have braced his foot against the bedpost; he pushed back hard enough that Wilson couldn't force his way back in. "House, come on. Move." He waited for some sort of retort, but it didn't come. "Quit acting like a child!"

"I'm not." Of course, when he said it like that, all petulant and whiny, he sort of sabotaged his own assertion.

Wilson rolled his eyes, his nostrils flared as an irrational anger took over. "House, open the damn door!"

"Go to hell." House braced himself more firmly and the door jostled in the wake of his movement.

"Dammit…House…" Wilson ground his shoulder into the door to try to force it open. He really had no idea what he was doing, he just needed to be in there. When the door wouldn't budge, not even the slightest bit, something tenuous in Wilson just snapped to be so literally shut out. "House, you can't do this – I love you!"

House sighed in the wake of Wilson's proclamation, a soft sound compared to their earlier exchanges, tinged in weary defeat. "I know. I love you too. That's the problem."

Wilson stared down at the bottom half of the door as if he could will himself to develop x-ray vision. His heart jumped and stuttered as the words echoed in his head, at a loss. House had said it, point blank. He'd said it _now_, why now? "You – " Wilson tried the knob even though he knew House was blocking the door. "House, that's not a problem." He wrenched fruitlessly at the door just to have a physical outlet for his muddled emotions. "That's a good thing – it's great!" His fists impacted the door again in a flurry of frustration. "You can't just drop something like that and expect me to bail!"

House merely repeated, "I don't wanna hurt you."

Wilson squeaked an unintelligible syllable, completely at a loss. "You're not going to."

"You don't know that! You don't have any _fucking _clue, Wilson."

"Then explain it!" God, how many times has Wilson begged for that lately?

House's head hit the door again, hard enough this time that Wilson winced. "What's the matter with you? You _know_."

"No," Wilson denied, vehement and bordering on frantic. "No, I don't know, House."

"I saw it! Quit playing dumb. I don't even care that you have it. You think I respect your privacy any more than you respect mine?"

Wilson did a mental double take, his thoughts flying to the file that Cuddy had given him. But no, House couldn't know about that. He wouldn't just keep his peace if he knew what Wilson had done. Would he? House had done some strange things since he and Wilson had grown more serious with each other, but he wouldn't just overlook an invasion of that magnitude.

Then again, as Wilson had learned over time, House didn't care that Wilson snooped; he only cared when Wilson tried to bring his ill-begotten discoveries up in conversation. Wilson could pry all he liked as long as he never tried to talk about it or analyze it, like when Wilson had called House's mom that first time. It was only after Wilson dragged the issue out to talk over that House started to get angry.

Wilson licked his lips, redirecting every thought in his head before he dared try to speak again. "I _do_ respect your privacy. Maybe not as much as I should, but I do. And I didn't look at it, House. I don't know what you're talking about right now." There. That was rather innocuous. If House knew about the file, that response should serve. If it were something else, Wilson had been vague enough that his words could apply to almost anything.

House hesitated for quite a while, but Wilson could practically hear him dissecting that. Eventually, House ventured to ask, "You really don't know?" He sounded doubtful but mild in comparison to his usual cynicism.

"No idea," Wilson assured him, desperate to remain patient. "Keeping you is more important to me than satisfying my curiosity."

Silence, and then House's legs shushed against the floor, pulling to one side, and the door went lax on its hinges as House drew away from it.

Wilson was so eager to get in before House changed his mind that his fingers missed the door knob altogether on his first shot. He tumbled into the bedroom to find House huddled on the floor against the wall, still worrying away at his pillow.

"Sorry," House grumbled, but it was one of those childish, forced apologies, like his mom had ordered him to say it. He refused to look up, what with being so busy sulking.

Wilson nodded, just relieved to be back in the room. "It's okay." He hesitated for a long, parched moment, and then picked over his wording before he carefully asked, "Can you tell me what you thought I already knew?"

House ducked his head, too ashamed to answer. His cheek twitched as he sighed, though, and House finally flicked a wary glance up at Wilson, like a stray dog in a corner trying to trust the animal control guy with the choke collar on a stick. "Should get the CT scan sometime soon. Just in case."

"Okay. We can do that now." Wilson realized he was breathing fast enough to justify running laps around the apartment, and frowned as he forced himself to draw slower, deeper breaths.

"And then I want to see my mom."

That took Wilson off guard. "Are you sure? It can wait. In fact, I can send her back home. You don't have to face her."

"I'm sure. I'm sick of dealing with this." He fiddled with the pillowcase for another second, then muttered, "It's fucking stupid."

Wilson blew out a resigned breath. "Okay. Then…we should get changed."

"Yeah." House's eyes wandered up Wilson's body, scrutinizing him for evidence of some shady deed or thought, like he knew better than to think that Wilson was actually dropping it.

Wilson waited for House's gaze reach his face, then asked, "You've been…strange lately. Having flashbacks, apparently. Behaving erratically… You don't really confide in anyone except me, and you don't seem to trust me enough to tell me what's going on with you right now."

House sucked on his lip for a second, then tucked his chin to peer up at Wilson from under lowered brows, like an uncertain little boy. It seemed an unconscious pose; Wilson didn't think that he would affect such a vulnerable look on purpose. "I don't…talk about it."

Wilson lowered himself to his knees in front of House. "About what?"

House's lids fell to half mast and his eyes meandered sadly away to dim the blue and better guard their owner.

So softly that he might not have spoken, Wilson encouraged, "Just say it, House. You're allowed to say it."

Wilson thought that House had never looked so wary before, so determined to sequester himself in his metaphorical fortress, in his own meticulously constructed lie. He blinked at Wilson a few times, impassive to the point that Wilson could practically feel a chill descend between them. "Save the kid gloves for your single-digit dying patients."

"Okay," Wilson said. He didn't even react to the dig; he was too used to House's insensitive comments about his medical practice. Wilson backed off a bit, at least in spirit; House was suddenly a stranger to him, caught in an old familiar friend. In body, Wilson rested a hand on House's good thigh and scooted closer without crowding him too much. "If you can't tell me, would it help to talk to someone else about it?"

House's eyes narrowed. "I'm not seeing a therapist."

"Why not? What's so terrible about therapists?" Wilson had an inkling already, based on random comments that House had made of late, but he didn't voice his suspicions. That answer belonged to House; it was his to share.

House looked away, but not out of ire; he seemed embarrassed or perhaps disappointed by his inability to come up with an answer that Wilson would find satisfactory. Which didn't necessarily mean that he wanted to tell the truth, just provide some new brand of House-ism close enough to make Wilson drop it. House was living in a castle of cards with a fan swiveling his way, and he knew it. But he couldn't change his ways; he was House.

Instead of saying anything, House abruptly held out a hand in an abbreviated c'mere gesture. "Need a hand."

Wilson obliged, hauling him up to his feet and leaning him against the wall so that he could bend back down for House's cane. He held it hostage for a moment, though, and ignored House's scrunched up, annoyed face. "I'm just concerned," Wilson said. "This isn't like you."

House scoffed at him without looking, which turned the sound into something pathetic and downcast. "Take your damn pill and shut up." He ripped his cane from Wilson's grasp and stumped out without another word.

They washed up and dressed in silence, both of them caught in too many private thoughts to sort through on a moment's notice. And when House shoved Wilson back against the bathroom wall and held out his pill bottle, worried enough that it showed in his face, Wilson took one without complaint.

* * *

They arrived at the hospital just after four, which may or may not have been a good thing. There were colleagues milling all over the place, ones who knew Wilson and House on sight, unlike when Wilson had snuck in that morning before the day shift started. Wilson had to stare down all sorts of random coworkers that looked like they wanted to approach; House had been prickly ever since Wilson set foot back into the apartment and the last thing he needed was to get House annoyed enough to axe the CT scan just because he didn't want to suffer the presence of people.

At the entrance to the ER, House groused about being wheeled around in a chair until Wilson crossed his arms and merely glared at him, but it proved a poor idea anyway. The side of the chair dug in against House's bruised hip and it hurt less for him to just traipse around the halls on his own three legs. And then there was the issue of obtaining an official urine sample. Wilson had to corner House in a bathroom stall and refuse to move aside until he got an extremely grumpy and vulgar soundtrack overlaying the dull tinkle of pee hitting a plastic cup. All in all, though, House ended up being far more cooperative than Wilson expected. Maybe he had finally figured out that indulging Wilson's doctor side would make Wilson wind down faster.

In any case, the sample revealed minor hematuria and the CT showed bruising, but nothing serious enough to spark surgery. House would need to take it easy for while and let the kidney heal. Getting him to sit still while his body recovered was going to be a trip. Wilson seriously considered suggesting a surprise road trip and then driving straight across the country to the Pacific Ocean. That way, House would have no choice but to shut up and sit there in the car for five days. Or, well…sit there, anyway. Wilson didn't think that House was biologically capable of shutting up while enduring monumental levels of boredom.

Wilson made a quick call to Doctor Ngyen while he waited for House to struggle his way back into his pants, which act also came accompanied by a colorful soundtrack. For some reason known only to House and his closet, House had worn a slightly more form-fitting pair of jeans than he normally did, though he had to have been perfectly well aware of how much the denim would scratch and pull over the tender, abused skin on his right side. Ngyen was kind enough to phone in a script for oxy, just enough to get House through the next week without gnawing his own leg off. Of course, this small mercy from Ngyen only came _after_ Wilson got tired of trying to explain the situation over the din of complaints spewing forth uninhibited from House's mouth. It would have been easier to write the damn script himself, but there were boundaries between him and House now, and one of them was that House didn't want Wilson prescribing for him anymore. Else, he would not have bothered seeing Ngyen at all.

They finished up at the hospital pretty quickly, even considering House's foul mood and his antics with the pee sample. They managed to avoid everyone of interest, including Cuddy; Wilson owed cards and flowers to several nurses for that one. He would have to make sure to pay cash for those; for all he knew, House combed through his credit card statements for evidence of Wilson's notorious wandering dick. Wilson had pipe dreams of the day House gave up on that paranoid notion.

When they pulled up in front of Wilson's apartment, it was only seven o'clock. House had gone silent as death in the passenger seat long before they left the PPTH parking lot. If the light from the street lamps were any better, Wilson was sure that he would've found House pale; as it was, he looked torn between begging Wilson to forget the whole deal and simply throwing up all over the dashboard. Which reminded him: did he have any plastic bags anywhere in the car? He'd just gotten the interior detailed. Maybe House would be considerate enough to aim out the window.

Wilson took his time parking in the hopes that House might calm down some, but if anything, House looked worse when Wilson finally ran out of excuses to keep straightening the Volvo against the curb. With a sigh, Wilson shut the car off and pulled the key from the ignition, then leaned back in his seat. "Are you sure?"

House started at the sound of his voice, then scowled to cover it up. As if Wilson were being absurd, he exclaimed, "It's just my mom. Geez, Wilson."

Wilson frowned in response, feeling very much the basset hound. His stupid internal voice kept reminding him that all of this crap was his fault, that he'd outed them in the restaurant and dredged up god knows what skeletons from the dank corners of the House household. Plus, he could feel the anti-depressant working through his system. Normally, he took it right before bed and the strangeness of feeling his thoughts altering wore off by morning. Not so, this time; it was like being buzzed on a beer or two, a pleasant and muffled hum. No wonder House hated these things. Wilson made a mental note to only ever take them before going to sleep from now on.

"Knock it off," House admonished, though his voice was gentle. His gaze wended its way past the cup holders to pin Wilson's face in the dim driver's seat. "None of this is your fault."

For once, Wilson took his words at face value. House tended not to negate blame when he thought someone deserved it; he really didn't hold Wilson responsible for the situation, not in any part. Maybe, if House didn't need to blame Wilson, then Wilson didn't either. Instead of responding, Wilson said, "We should get it over with." Then he paused. "I can wait here if you – "

"No. You're coming in." House shot Wilson a sidelong glance, trying to lighten the mood. "Consider it a couple thing."

Wilson's affect remained flat. "_Are_ we a couple? I'm still…not sure."

House's eyes fell to the center console, and then he made an exasperated face that seemed self-directed. "Yeah. We are. Just…I'm not…comfortable with it yet."

At that, Wilson grinned, his top front teeth showing. "Just so you know, I'll now proceed to ignore any future attempts to dump me. You can never get rid of me."

House let out an amused breath, smiling over the head of his cane. "Good." Then he grew a fresh case of nerves and leaned against the window, craning his neck to see Wilson's apartment. "Lights are on."

Wilson took that as a cue to get a move on, though by the time he stepped around the car and shuffled up onto the sidewalk, House hadn't yet opened his door. Wilson stamped his feet and made a pretense of searching his pockets until he located his gloves, which he pulled on despite the lack of bite to the air. It was almost April, after all. House ducked back down in his seat after a few seconds' grim contemplation of Wilson's apartment windows. Then he suddenly burst out of the car and brushed past Wilson to get at the front stairs, all tension and cane. Wilson raised an eyebrow at his back, but said nothing as he locked the Volvo and followed.

Getting up the stairs was an ordeal, owing to House's recent injuries, but they made it without quite breaking out into a sweat. House kept leaning on Wilson even after they reached Wilson's apartment door, and though Wilson glanced at him, he made no comment. Wilson did the knocking since House seemed content to just stand there all night chewing the inside of his cheek like a starving man.

When Blythe's padded footsteps approached the door, House shoved off of Wilson and straightened; only Wilson would have noticed the twitch at the corner of his jaw as he suppressed a grunt at demanding the use of his bad leg. Before Blythe could reach them, Wilson asked, "Still good?"

House shot him a queasy look, his chin still lifted, but he offered a shaky nod in response. God, he looked so scared; Wilson couldn't help staring. When House began pawing at his pocket, searching after an absent pill bottle, Wilson laid an unobtrusive hand near House's elbow to still him. House sighed quietly, and then they both started when Blythe opened the door. As Wilson bumbled a greeting, he could feel the air tighten in response to House stiffening beside him.

"Oh, goodness." Blythe looked past Wilson to where House was deliberately not looking back, then stood aside so that they could enter. "I didn't think you'd come so soon. I've seen all the news stories…" As Wilson passed her, he noticed her appraising House, probably both for evidence of how this would go, and for any outward signs of injury. House met her gaze for a bare instant, grimaced at her, and then made a point of finding a lone piece of furniture to lean on.

Wilson waited for him to sit down, but House just stood there, isolated by virtue of there being no other chairs near him. "Well," Wilson offered with a shrug. "House wanted to get this over with." He saw no need to sugar coat it.

A muted sort of dread came and went on Blythe's face, and Wilson wondered what she thought he had meant by that. That House was washing his hands of her? In truth, Wilson had no clue what House intended to do.

"Alright," Blythe said, her voice soft, less a mother and more an old woman about to swallow what little pride she had left. She turned to regard House, who did not appear inclined to start the conversation himself, and then sighed. "I guess I'll start." She drew herself up, but even at her full height, she appeared weighed down. "Greg…originally, I only apologized because James asked me to. He said I owed it to you."

"Oh, good," House chirped, though his obvious queasiness sort of belayed his cheerful tone. "Cuz for a second there, I thought you might've meant it." He chuckled, sarcastic and yet not. "Can't have that; it'd be weird."

Blythe did an admirable job of overlooking House's commentary. "And then I started thinking, and I realized he's right, Greg. I _do_ owe you an apology."

House glanced up and blinked at her. "Oh."

"I've dealt with this poorly," Blythe confessed. "I never should've asked you to apologize to Sarah. She's the one who should beg forgiveness; she had no right calling you just to rant."

"Kay," House mumbled, his gaze wandering, clearly uncertain. "That's cool."

Blythe pursed her lips at him, frustrated, but there were tiny lines glimmering along her lids when she turned to Wilson. "James, could you leave us for a couple of minutes?"

Wilson started to bow out with his customary grace but House snapped, "No. Anything you can't say in front of Wilson, you can just keep to yourself." He shrank the moment he finished, though, chagrined at speaking that sharply to his mother. For good measure, he added a meek, apologetic, "Mom."

Blythe had that disapproving motherly look on her face for all of three seconds at House's tone, but she softened quickly, lowering her voice and her eyes in tandem. "I know this is a bad time. I've been watching the news coverage…" She peered up at her son again and offered a sympathetic smile. "Are you okay? Were you hurt too badly?"

House tilted his head to one side, perhaps incredulous at her show of concern, then scoffed in regular character. "What, you want to see the bruises this time?"

"I…" Blythe bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling, her cheek twitching much the same way that House's did when he hid an emotional reaction. Without looking at him, Blythe said, "I didn't know what he'd done, Greg." Again, she made an effort to obtain eye contact, but this time, House was scowling at Wilson's dark television set. "You didn't come out for two months – neither of you said anything about it."

House smiled at the floor near his feet, an ugly expression. "Hmph." That was probably supposed to be a laugh to humor her. Wilson took a few steps back and ended up leaning against the door like he had contrived to keep mother and son locked here until they resolved their differences. Really, Wilson just wanted to leave them to it and go find a cheap bar. He didn't want to listen to House and Blythe discuss bruises and family quarrels, and how fists might have become involved. Damn his curiosity in the first place.

"Greg, I didn't know!" Blythe insisted. This time, she didn't stop the sheen in her eyes from tumbling over to run in a single line down one cheek. "Did you honestly think I was okay with that? That I approved?" When House shrugged, Blythe snapped, "Gregory! How could you – "

"It's not like you asked!" House bellowed, and then immediately shrank back from the hoarse sound of his own voice. But he kept talking. "He was at my door every morning yelling at me to stop being a brat and come out and face it. You just disappeared!"

Wilson flinched against the door and then masked it by scratching at his jaw and palming the back of his neck, studiously not looking at either of the occupants of his apartment. He needed to dust; his books were covered in a fuzzy film. With as little time as he actually spent here anymore –

"I didn't know what to do!" Blythe sobbed. She fumbled for a napkin from the little pile on the coffee table and dabbed angrily at the wet in the creases of her nose. "Maybe what you did was wrong, but I know why you did it – I understood, Greg! Can you even guess how terrifying that was for me? I never thought, not in all your life, that we were hurting you like that! I thought we were doing better than all those other parents out there. If I'd had any idea, I would've just taken you out back myself with a switch when you misbehaved."

House tossed Wilson a leery glance but Wilson had engrossed himself in grim contemplation of how unhygienic his apartment was.

"Greg, he loved you – he was ashamed of himself," Blythe choked out.

"Funny," House mumbled.

"He was sorry," Blythe pushed. "If you could've seen him when he came to get me… Greg, I'd never seen him cry before – he couldn't even talk."

"Really," House sneered. "He was so broken up about it that he never bothered saying it. At least I apologize sometimes – ask Wilson."

Though it probably didn't help much, Wilson piped up with, "Yeah. I've heard him apologize."

Blythe gave a loud sigh and rubbed her forehead for a second. "He thought you knew. He thought you'd finally forgiven him – that you came out of your room because it was all better."

"Why the hell would I do that?" House demanded. "That's the stupidest lie I've ever heard. Dad wasn't that dumb."

Blythe lifted her face from her hand and glared at House, but she didn't seem at all miffed at him. "I never told him you threw them out. He thought you'd read them, that you accepted what he said and that there was no need to talk about it any more. And that was _my _fault, not his."

House regarded her in stony silence while Wilson ran his fingers through the dust on a bookshelf, tracing the spines of old medical texts and magazines and mass market paperbacks, leaving squiggly patterns behind. Ooh – Asimov; he'd been looking for that one.

"He came home to die," Blythe remarked, her voice whispery. "Did you know that?"

House pivoted on his good leg and contemplated a medical journal spread open on the coffee table. "Don't care," he replied, his voice edged in something hard to identify. "I thought you got that from the part where I didn't return your phone calls for three months."

"That summer, after you came out…I pulled the letters from your wastepaper basket," Blythe confessed. It seemed like a non-sequitor, but if Blythe was anything like her son, there was a sharp point mired somewhere in there. "I thought maybe someday, you'd actually want to read them."

Wilson looked over as House did to find Blythe fingering a stack of old envelopes as if they were the last precious thing she had left on earth.

"Geez…Mom…" House sounded much like a teenager as he threw his head back to glare at the ceiling. "How many times do I have to say it? I don't want them – I don't want _anything_ from him."

Blythe ignored him. "He found them in my closet. He was looking for a quilt, and the box fell, and he found them while he was trying to put everything back in."

House gave a noncommittal snort and rummaged in his pocket for a second, then rolled his eyes and limped away to put some more furniture between Blythe and himself; she had migrated across the room without anyone noticing.

Blythe watched her son retreat, sending fresh moisture to well up behind her eyelids, but she didn't pursue him. "It was just a week before he died. He was…so upset, Greg. I couldn't calm him down for hours, he just kept – "

"Oh, that's great, mom!" House shouted, startling Blythe into wide-eyed silence. "Make out like he was so distraught over some stupid letters that he up and croaked."

Blythe stuttered, "Greg, no – I didn't – "

"Just say it," House interrupted again, his demeanor too practiced to be at ease, a deadly calm hovering over his features. "Go on. I know you want to blame me for being an asshole and refusing to give him absolution while he was on his deathbed – just tell me how my insensitivity killed your precious husband and we'll be on our way."

"That's not what I said!" Blythe yelled in disbelief. "No, Greg – no! I would never make you think that!"

"Then why bring it up?" House demanded, his practiced façade cracking even as Wilson watched. "Why say it unless you want to rub my face in it?"

"Because he made me promise!" Blythe shouted. Then she glanced around the room, self-conscious, and forced herself to sound and appear calmer. "He was all set to get in his car and drive here – he couldn't stand the thought of all the years he'd wasted, all the time the two of you might have reconciled." Her voice fell to pieces as she talked, but she pierced the words through it because it was all she had. "He told me he'd been living a lie for forty years, thinking that his son forgave him, that he'd gotten a second chance to be a good father. All he could think about was coming here and trying to make things right – he didn't want to die knowing that you still hated him." She drew in a shuddering breath. "And that's _my_ fault. I let that happen, Greg. I didn't mean to; I didn't think it could possibly harm you. I wanted to put it behind all of us, move on, and I thought we did. And now I've hurt both of you, and I can't…fix things with John; he's gone now. But you're not. Greg, I won't make that mistake twice. If you should be angry with anyone, it's me. Not him."

"Why should I hate _you_?" House bit out between sharp breaths. "You never raised a hand to me. You still…just…"

Blythe was crying openly now, her tone ragged as she refused to stop talking. "He told me everything that happened after I ran out of the house that day. He sat there on the floor of my closet with his letters and just…said it. All of it. Greg…I didn't know what he'd done to you. I never would have stayed with him if I had. I would've taken you away, gone to Oma's or a shelter…anywhere. It didn't matter that it only happened once – once was enough. I would've protected you."

"No," House denied, shaking his head violently enough to unbalance himself. He reset his feet and backed off until he found the back of Wilson's couch to support himself against. "You didn't want to be anywhere near me – I scared you. You kept leaving the house. You kept running stupid errands so you wouldn't have to be there."

"I kept making up errands so that the house would be empty and you could come out long enough to eat something or go to the bathroom," Blythe countered. "I made sure we were both out of the house and out of sight as often as possible. It was the only thing I could think to do."

"You didn't even try to talk to me!" House argued. Wilson started forward at the frayed betrayal in his voice, but House angled away from him. The message to keep away was clear. "You didn't care! All you had to do was knock and ask if I was okay, but you didn't. You just found ways to be somewhere else and pretend it never happened – you didn't really want to know if I was okay. You just wanted things back to normal."

Blythe started to deny that, but apparently she couldn't. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, revealed for whatever it was that House implied her to be. "Yes, I did," she choked out. "I was a fool, Greg. I didn't know any better. And I wish… But if wishes were horses…"

"You'd have a herd?" House snarked. He couldn't help himself, Wilson thought.

Blythe countered with, "I'd have one horse."

House actually appeared taken aback by that. Wilson watched House frown and look down, the lines of his face smoothing out with something precariously close to forgiveness. Wilson could see it in his posture, the moment he hit the verge of letting it all go. He believed his mom – he believed that she was sorry, that she had only one regret, and that it was how she had treated him growing up…how she had failed to be there when he had truly needed her. House cocked his head and gave his mother a soft look, something like sympathy as he reevaluated her.

And then Blythe explained herself. "I never would have had the affair."

Wilson's stomach dropped and then did a death flop on the floor. Not only did he know for certain how House would take that, he could also tell exactly how Blythe meant it. The two weren't far off from each other.

"I never should have been a parent," Blythe went on, oblivious. "I betrayed John and I…I was a bad mother, and you had to suffer for it. We were ruining you and I didn't even see – "

"Fuck you," House snarled.

Blythe didn't even flinch at the obscenity, which Wilson found odd, but he didn't have time to unravel it. House was headed his way, his footsteps heavy and hurt. Wilson jumped as House made a grab for Wilson's jacket pocket and stole his pills back before wrenching the door open hard enough that the knob slammed into the wall and dented it.

Wilson waited until House was out of earshot and then threw Blythe an incredulous glance. He spluttered, "What the hell?"

Blythe took a deep breath and then met Wilson's eyes, her expression more anguished than Wilson expected. "I promised John I'd set it right. Since I let him go four decades without a chance to resolve things with Greg… I promised I'd find a way to make Greg forgive him."

Wilson merely gaped at her for a moment, and then his mouth was moving before he could stop it. "You're a bitch." His voice betrayed shock at that revelation.

Blythe nodded, resigned. "I know. I'll be gone in the morning. Tell Greg…I'm sorry. He might not care anymore, but I am." She held out the stack of letters. "He'll read them now. He hates me instead."

Wilson shook his head in disbelief but he took the letters. How could he not? She was probably right – House would accept them now and he'd read them, and probably come to some sort of peace with his dad. And Blythe could sit about and wallow in her guilt, believing that House rightly hated her, finally, on account of whatever the hell had happened when House was twelve.

Wilson breathed, "How could you be so selfish? John is dead! House could have come to terms with that, but now he's just going to torture himself thinking that he wronged his father. Why couldn't you leave well enough alone? God – you used me to get to him!"

All Blythe said to that was, "I promised John I'd set things right."

"This isn't right," Wilson snapped, shaking his head. "This is worse, and now you're leaving again – _disappearing_." He used House's earlier accusation on purpose. "He doesn't need a pile of damned letters from a dead man – he needs _you_!"

Blythe nodded in agreement, but she said, "I was never any use to him. I refused to see how much our behavior hurt him, and it… Forty years, James. I could have told John that Greg didn't know he was sorry, but I let Greg keep thinking that he deserved whatever John did, and John never tried to say anything because he thought it was all okay. I knew something bad happened when John said he'd locked himself in his bedroom, but I was too much of a coward to ask what. I did this to my son, James – I made him miserable, I made him think… I don't even know what he thinks. But I know it's not good. He doesn't need me; he needs his father." She pointed to the letters clenched in Wilson's hands. "And that's all that's left of him."

"God…" A mirthless laugh expelled itself from Wilson's slightly parted lips. He looked at Blythe again and then decided, "You can go to hell."

Blythe gave him a sad smile. "Probably. I'll stay out of your lives if that's what you want."

How the _fuck_ could she smile over that? Wilson made an incredulous sound, pranced for a second, and then said, "Yeah. I want that." Then he stormed out.

--TBC


	23. Chapter 23

Wilson ran outside, expecting to find House lounging impatiently against the hood of Wilson's Volvo, popping pills to set himself back on whatever effort he was making to curb his escapist impulses, but the only thing on the hood of his car was the bottle of Oxy that House had snatched from Wilson's pocket. Okay…House probably left it to stall any moments of panic on Wilson's part that he was in an alley somewhere overdosing. Wilson could deal with that. He scanned the street in either direction, expecting to see House's lurching figure hurrying away from him, but the streets were empty. Dammit, House was a cripple with numerous recent injuries to his already weakened right side. How far could he have gotten?

After sparing a glance up the side of his building – no friggin' way; Blythe was at the window watching him like she was concerned – Wilson snatched the pill bottle, climbed into his car and tossed the letters onto the passenger side floor. It took him a full minute to work his way out of the parking space because one of his asshole neighbors had boxed him in, but he got out without ramming the guy's bumper. Wilson figured that he could circle the block, then the adjoining blocks, and eventually find House limping aimlessly down some sidewalk. That was assuming that House hadn't hopped on a random bus, but since House hadn't stepped foot onto a public transport vehicle since Amber's death, Wilson didn't think that likely.

Sure enough, two blocks away, Wilson caught sight of House making his way slowly down the sidewalk. He must have hauled ass for the first block and then lost half his furious energy by the second. Wilson honked the horn as he slowed to match House's geriatric pace, but he had to roll down the passenger side window and shout House's name before he got a reaction. Without being invited, House glanced around and sidetracked to Wilson's car. He pulled open the rear door and more or less fell over himself to get in, breathing dangerously hard and sweating profusely from the looks of things.

Wilson twisted in his seat to get a good look at House. Careful to keep his tone neutral, he asked, "Do you need another pill?"

House nodded, stole a wary glance at Wilson's face, and accepted the capsule that Wilson passed back to him.

As House tossed back the pill, Wilson asked, "Wanna talk?" He knew he was pushing his luck, but one never knew for sure with House.

House shook his head and settled against the car door, his bad leg stretched across the seat, his left wedged against the rear cup holder. If he pushed too hard, he would snap it off, but Wilson kept his peace; he could afford to replace a damn cup holder. It didn't matter. House occupied himself by worrying his cane between his fingers like a dog having at a juicy bone; he couldn't rub at his leg because of the bruising.

They drove back to 221B in silence. All the while, Wilson kept replaying the scene in his apartment against his will. There were clues there, and he couldn't help but analyze the particular way in which House often used words. It seemed like _House_ had done something, not John or Blythe, and that made Wilson wonder about his own conversations with House. Just that morning, House had insisted, _You're not safe._ And when Wilson had interpreted that the obvious way, House had told him he just didn't get it. Maybe when House had said that, he hadn't mean safe _to _him. Maybe House meant _from_ – that Wilson wasn't safe _from_ him. But that made little sense; House had a temper, yes, and he was brazen to a degree, but he didn't hurt people just to hurt them. He was probably _more_ harmless than Wilson in that respect. After all, Wilson threw and broke things when he snapped; he'd even tried to brain House with a cognac bottle at his dad's funeral. House occasionally lobbed items at walls, but not with any real intent to harm. And the very thought that John would write dozens of letters, some of them long judging by the bulge of the envelopes, in an effort to communicate…it didn't compute. Blythe leaving the house, John apparently losing his temper and beating the crap out of Greg only to cry about it afterwards, Blythe convincing herself that House loved her so whatever happened must be her fault… Wilson couldn't even begin to add all that up.

House didn't immediately attempt to remove himself from Wilson's car once they parked in the halo of a halogen lamp. Orange light filtered in around them and Wilson sighed. "What happened when you were twelve?"

"Nothing."

Wilson palms remained glued the steering wheel and he chewed on his lip before saying, "We both know that's not true."

"No," House agreed. "It's not."

"I won't judge you, you know." Wilson didn't know quite why he offered that, but it seemed right.

House let out a long breath tinged in something desperate, like all he wanted was to disappear. It made him sound painfully young. Wilson was glad he wasn't looking at House right now; that sound nearly undid him. Too low to carry far, House admitted, "I did something bad."

Wilson's heart skipped a beat. House was talking to him. God, he was talking! Still neutral, still outwardly calm, Wilson stared out the windshield with unseeing eyes and asked, "What did you do?"

A quiet sound filtered through the car; it took long moments for Wilson to realize that it came from House. Wilson's gaze flickered up to his rearview mirror. He had to lean up in his seat to make out the shape of House curled up behind him, his face turned into the seat. No new noise issued forth; it looked like House was concentrating on just breathing at the moment.

"House?"

"Why can't you just go away?"

"You know why."

House laughed at that, though he may as well have cruelly mocked himself with the sound. "I'm not nice. You know I'm not. Why are you even here?"

Wilson risked a glance over his shoulder, but he could see nothing more than what the rearview mirror had already revealed: the back of House's head. "I already answered that." Wilson took a moment to regroup, and then did something completely out of character. "You need some space?"

House twitched and then turned far enough away from the seat to peer mistrustfully at Wilson from one eye. Their gazes met in the rearview mirror, buffered by a misty reflection of what was real. Though hesitant, House nodded.

Wilson nodded back. "I'll go in, then. There will be food waiting."

Leaving that car was one of the hardest things Wilson had ever done. He had to fight himself the entire time, telling himself that he didn't have to smother people to show he cared, that this could work just as well, maybe even better. He glanced back a half dozen times because he couldn't help it; House watched him go from the backseat of the Volvo with a puzzled look on his face. Finally, the building blocked House from view and Wilson shut the foyer door behind himself. He grabbed House's mail because it gave his hands something to do, and then he unlocked the apartment door. Wilson sucked in a huge breath once he was inside, and then he dropped House's mail on the desk. Boundaries. He had to respect at least some of House's boundaries.

House came inside less than ten minutes later, his face etched in incredulity. When Wilson looked up from the preposterous spread of burgers and Chinese takeout on the coffee table, House stated, "You didn't come back."

Wilson's stomach lurched. "Did you want me to?"

"No, but…figured you would," House replied. "You're incurable."

Wilson snickered because House looked better, more in control of himself, and that was always a source of reassurance. He held up a carton of food. "Sweet and sour chicken?"

House smirked. "Matches my disposition." He continued to watch Wilson though as he removed his jacket and sneakers and limped to the couch. Once he had flopped down, he turned to Wilson, expectant, and demanded, "So…interrogation?"

"It's on the tip of my tongue," Wilson admitted. "But no."

House blinked at him, and accepted the chicken. "Really."

Wilson inhaled deeply, not quite convinced himself, but replied, "Really. You know I'm here if you need it. That's…all I can offer."

"Hm." House squinted at him, but he could find no chinks in Wilson's apparent respect of his privacy. "Um…thanks, then."

"Sure thing." Wilson dug about his carton of honey chicken and stared blankly at the crappy sci-fi movie he had chosen on the television.

After several minutes and a few half-hearted, mumbled criticisms of the movie from both of them, House announced, "You're about to explode, aren't you."

Wilson choked on an onion ring like the genius he was, and then looked at House. "Yeah. But it's fine. I don't need to know." Wilson's eyes tracked to the side, skimming the impressive array of food in front of them. Wilson wasn't actually hungry, he just needed to fill his brain with a menial task. Apparently, that had led to the entire contents of the refrigerator taking up residence in front of the couch. "You know…I'm gonna take a shower, I think. I haven't had one all day. And I need to shave." He ran a belated hand over his chin and decided, "Yeah, definitely need to shave."

House gave him a funny look. "Okay then, Rain Man. Don't drown in there."

"Right," Wilson muttered, shooting House an exasperated look. "Hot water bad." He paused behind the couch, though, compelled to say, "I'm not acting like everything's normal. I'm not…dismissing you. Okay? I just…think…that's what you want for now?" He glanced at the back of House's head for confirmation.

House rolled his eyes and then contorted himself on the couch so that he could properly glare at Wilson. "My parents were fighting, it was loud, I was scared one of them would do something, and my dad left his gun sitting out on his bed. Happy now?"

"Uh…huh." Wilson gaped at him. "You…you pulled a – a gun? On – on your dad?" He paused to consider that, and then had to ask, "Who wouldn't, in your position?"

House scowled at him and then faced the television again. "Go take your damn shower."

Wilson's eyes narrowed of their own accord. "I'm missing something here."

"Yeah, your baby-smooth cheeks. No way you're getting any tonight. I might hurt myself making out with you."

One corner of Wilson's mouth twitched. He hated when House redirected like that, but he hated it more that he always took the bait. "You know, your stubble isn't exactly downy soft, and yet you don't hear me whining."

"Actually, I do," House countered. He acquired an obnoxious falsetto to demonstrate. "Come on, House, quit teasing – I don't wanna wait. Why can't you just shut up and fuck me? I wanna come."

Wilson scowled. "I do not." Then he stomped from the room.

From the living room, House called, "Do too, Whiner!"

"Namby-pamby."

"Mama's boy."

Wilson blinked, then shot back, "Sociopath!"

House took a moment to regroup and then yelled, "Moopsie."

Wilson's face split in a grin, and he returned, "Sweet cakes."

"Ass monkey."

"Only for you, House."

"Damn right."

* * *

Wilson groaned in frustration and thumped his forehead against the wall of the shower. He had no idea how long he'd been in here by now. It was supposed to have been a quick shower. And then the warm water had hit him and started running down the planes of his body, and inevitable biological processes had been set in motion, and hell – he hadn't had sex in days. _Days_. Granted, bad things had been going on, but Wilson was one of those people who needed the release offered by sex. Hence, his serial womanizing at the worst possible times. It reduced his stress levels, it let him unwind, allowed him to think straight again, have control over one little something… Or it _should_ have, but good fucking lord, this wasn't worth the aggravation.

Wilson rolled his eyes and tried adjusting his grip with his left hand. He was making himself feel worse, stuck in the shower with an intractable hard-on. What was so wrong about wanting a little relief? He figured House wasn't in the mood, or would be in too much pain to make it comfortable, so why not handle it himself for a day or two? But no…stupid penis didn't like that. Wilson squeezed himself a bit harder and then snatched the bottle of body wash for the third time. More lubrication wasn't going to help at this point and he knew it, but he had no other recourse. With a fresh glop of shower gel lathered all over his hand, Wilson braced himself against the tiles and went for it again.

The obscene sound of this usually did the trick for him all on its own, but his dick wouldn't cooperate. He worked up quite a lather, froth dripping over his fingers like…well, like ejaculate. If only he were that lucky. "Come on," Wilson muttered under his breath. He could feel it, right there, right _fucking_ – "Dammit!" He slammed a fist against the tile and his eyes fell on the stupid bright blue dildo suctioned to the wall near his hip. He considered using it, but that only drew a well of scorn up from his irritated not-functioning places. He was hard, aching…he needed this, but it didn't even feel good. It was just _there_, a recalcitrant body part sitting in his hand, mocking him. Wilson cupped his own balls instead and scowled at them. All this did was remind him of how little House had touched him lately – shrinking when Wilson reached for him, shrugging him off, hugging pillows and wearing Wilson's clothes while keeping as much distance as he could…

Not House's fault. Not Wilson's fault either. Things were crap right now. They just needed time, House needed space, Wilson needed… Well, not _this_. He grabbed his cock again and set a grueling pace, which didn't help matters, but he was angry now and frustrated. He was determined to come now just to spite himself, which of course worked against him, and he gritted his teeth, back rounded, head thrown back. Just a little more – he just needed a little more… Come _on_!

"Wilson?"

Wilson blew an annoyed breath out through his nose and shut his eyes, his hand stilling on his cock. "What?!"

"You're using up all the hot water."

Wilson threw a furious look over his shoulder and angled his body to hide his erection. House had poked his head into the shower and if anything, the concerned look on his face only served to further irritate Wilson. "Fine. I'm done." Wilson flung a hand out to switch off the taps but House shoved the curtain far enough out of the way to catch at Wilson's hand before he could stop the flow of water. Wilson expelled a long-suffering sigh and gazed at the ceiling. "House, this is not a good time to be a bastard."

"I'm not being a bastard. Move over."

"Not now!"

House ignored him and somehow tripped his way into the tub without falling over.

"Fine – take your damn hot water," Wilson snapped. He started to fumble the shower curtain out of his way but House snatched his arms and dragged him back under the spray. "Let go!"

"Geez, calm down," House barked. "It's like trying to hug myself. Am _I_ this annoying?"

"You squirm more." Wilson bit back any further retorts and allowed House to use him as a shower support because shoving him off now would only result in bodily injury. He really didn't want House touching him right now, though; he could only imagine the mocking he'd have to endure when House realized that he couldn't bring himself off. Then Wilson felt an odd sensation rubbing against the backs of his legs and glanced down. "House…you're dressed! What the – "

"Your antics left me no time to rip my clothes off."

"Those are flannel pants, House. You got undressed, and then you put on pajama pants before you hopped in the shower with me." He craned his neck to meet House's impassive gaze. At the lack of reaction there, Wilson asked, "Don't want me to notice the cut marks?"

House frowned, and Wilson admitted to himself that maybe that had been below the belt. He was a little pissy at the moment; sexual tension could do that to a person. "You wanna see?" House challenged.

Wilson's eyelids drooped a bit and he wondered at how that actually mollified him. "Did you clean them?"

"Of course," House groused. "Do you think I like the idea of getting a staph infection right next to my funnables?"

Wilson bit the side of his mouth and relented a bit. House's arms plastered around his chest probably helped. "Tell me you're done doing that."

One of House's eyebrows inched upwards, betraying something dubious, but he nodded. "Sure. No more."

Unconvinced, Wilson nonetheless let it drop and faced the spray, his hands still splayed on the tiles in front of and beside himself. When House dropped a hand to fondle him, though, Wilson swatted it away and snapped, "Not now, House."

"Relax," House murmured. He placed his lips next to Wilson's ear and breathed there for a moment. It melted Wilson a fraction and he allowed House's hand to wander southward again. "You know, if sex were the only thing you ever needed from me, we'd have the best relationship known to man."

Wilson chuckled against his will, half his brain focused on the sensation of House's hand cupping his balls. "Sex makes up for what you can't give."

Wilson felt House frowning against his neck and a bit more of his weight sagged against Wilson's back. "I don't know what else you need."

"Yes you do," Wilson replied, surprised by his own bitterness. He couldn't help noticing that House hadn't removed his hand, though, and the warmth moved up to encase Wilson's penis. Wilson sighed even though he tried to hold it in. "I'm not…holding it against you. I don't expect you to be normal, House. I don't _want_ you normal."

"I know." House started to stroke him, lightly at first, his grip too loose. "Doesn't make it any better when you say that, though."

Wilson started a bit, and House tightened his arm over Wilson's chest. "You _want_ to be normal?" When House merely kept on distracting himself with Wilson's penis, Wilson demanded, "Why?"

"Because maybe you'd be happy then."

Wilson grabbed House's wrist to still his stroking and twisted around to look at him. "You being abnormal is _not_ why I have issues."

House gazed back from behind hooded eyes. "I didn't say it was. But maybe if I were normal, you'd get what you want, and then – "

"Shut up," Wilson snapped. "I don't want abstract concepts and existential definitions of conformation to societal norms. I want you. We've been over this a dozen times, House. You need to stop obsessing over it."

House snuffed and glanced away before arguing, "But you just said I can't give – "

"House, my problems are problems with _me_, not with you."

House scowled and squeezed Wilson's erection hard enough to make Wilson grunt. "You're a confusing son of a bitch."

"Takes one to know one." Wilson suddenly became too aware of House's hand firmly wrapped around his penis, and he could feel his eyes hazing even as he attempted to maintain his glare. "Do something with that before I start whining, you insecure prick."

House feigned affront. "Am not."

"Are too."

"Brilliant retort," House mumbled into Wilson's skin.

"Hmph." Wilson didn't recall closing his eyes, but the tingle engendered by House's hand…yes. _That's_ what was missing before. Out loud, he mused, "I have a picky penis."

House made a face against Wilson's shoulder. "You know, you get stupid whenever somebody plays with your junk."

"Mmmm…shut it."

House chuckled and nipped at the tendons in Wilson's neck. "You really want that? You don't like listening to my voice?"

Wilson shuddered. Yeah, he liked it when House used that tone on him, coy and dark with promises and dirty secrets. No way was he telling House as much. "You're distracting me."

House drawled, "Right. That's why little Jimmy's getting all perky?" He tightened his fist around Wilson's penis and drew it up Wilson's length at an agonizingly slow pace. "You don't like it when I whisper your name in your ear, Wilson?"

Oh shit – where the hell did the dirty talk come from? "Uh…yeah, that's…fine, I guess." Wilson arched into House's hand, his fingernails curling into the tile grout. He imagined he could feel veins in House's palm throbbing against every nerve along the surface of his penis.

"Or maybe you don't like when I whimper for you?" On cue, House bent his face into Wilson's neck and whimpered, his arm cinching tighter across Wilson's chest, fingers digging into Wilson's flank.

Wilson grunted, his toes curling. "Ohhhoh…yeah, that's okay too." House's hand was migrating down his stiff length now and Wilson squirmed to try and thrust into his fingers.

House wouldn't let him control the pace, though; he merely stopped moving and kept a firm grip on Wilson's cock. "Or maybe…you don't like it when I run out of breath…and pant your name…is that it? Hm, Wilson?" He moved his free hand around to pinch Wilson's nipple.

"Fuck." Wilson hung his head and pushed his ass back against House's crotch. Oh, good – this was turning House on too. "Maybe it's when you moan," Wilson suggested, shivering as sparks danced through his groin and out to burn the tops of his thighs.

"No, can't be that." House buried his face in the crook of Wilson's neck and suckled the skin he found there. It sent a bolt shooting from the tip of Wilson penis, down to the root of his ass; he could feel his rectal muscles clench in anticipation.

Wilson arched his back to press his buttocks harder against House's groin, and let out a whispery moan of his own. House was still gripping his penis, still squeezing a bit in stillness, just…god, just holding him. And he hadn't relinquished Wilson's nipple yet, he was just toying with it, rolling it between his fingers and flicking it with his thumb until it beaded into a little nub and ached… "Ahh…House, please…"

House grinned and claimed a nip of skin near Wilson's shoulder to pull at with his teeth. Wilson jerked and then wriggled in response. After House released it, he laved the ill-treated patch of flesh with his tongue and then worked his way up to Wilson's ear. "Sure. You don't whine at all."

Wilson blinked his eyes open but the shower wall blurred in front of him as House started stroking him again, so damn slow, a snail's pace up toward the head of his penis. "Nnng…huh." He had no idea what he'd meant to say. It might not even have been a comeback.

"Or maybe you don't like…hearing how hard…you get me?"

Oh, yeah – House couldn't speak in full sentences anymore. Wilson curled his abdomen and fit his spine in against House's stomach and torso. Wet flannel hit his butt and lower back, but he could feel House's slowly growing erection chafing against his tail bone. House pulled him in and thrust against him, purring into Wilson's ear. And then the sensation struck home and Wilson yelped, twisting away. "God – ow – _shit_!"

House jerked away from him and stumbled to grab the pipes behind him to keep from falling. "What – sorry? Wilson – "

"Oh, fuck." Wilson bent over and wheezed through his clenched teeth. Three times, he had fallen on his ass in the past two days, right on his tailbone, at that perfect effing angle. "Dammit." He clamped his lips shut over any further exclamations, half aware of House pretty much cowering at the other end of the tub.

House put a tentative hand on Wilson's shoulder and Wilson struggled to peer up at him without passing out. He had almost forgotten how much that hurt, and House had barely put any pressure on him. "I forgot," House said. "I mean, I saw you fall in the lobby. I didn't think I hurt you so badly."

Wilson shook his head and looked down again, water dripping in streams off the end of his nose. And things had been going so well. "It wasn't that. It was later…in the hospital room. I tripped over the crash cart."

"Oh." House sounded uncomfortable to be referencing the incident with Lyamone while standing half naked in the shower, or perhaps Wilson's unease simply colored the way he heard House's voice. "There isn't much bruising, but you could've chipped the bone."

"It's fine, House. Just a little sore."

"Bull shit, it's fine. Stand up."

Wilson straightened with a wince and a hand behind his back, like that would help. "See?"

House snorted, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah, you're a paragon of 'fine.'"

Wilson grimaced at him and looked down for second, only to find himself confronted by his own softening penis. To top it off, his balls still ached and he was still horny despite the harsh heat encompassing his lower back. He regarded himself mournfully and then tipped his chin up to peer at House. Wilson charm: on.

House narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"

"Well." Wilson turned sheepish and gestured to himself, a little bit embarrassed at having to ask. "I'd finish it myself, but that wasn't working so well before."

House gave him a grouchy look, but it was all show – Wilson could tell by now that House actually enjoyed getting him off. Maybe he liked to tease Wilson, or perhaps it was a screwed-up sort of power thing, but… House planted a hand against the tiles and limped the two tiny steps back to him. "What would you do without me?"

"Probably find some diseased, easy lay on a street corner," Wilson dead-panned. "And then I'd come crawling to you for an STD panel."

House shot him a dirty look. "One time, Wilson. Sue me for asking my bestest bud for a favor."

"Hey, turnabout's fair play. You still owe me for that one, plus what – seven years of interest?"

House grumbled, "Nine. Now drop it."

"I was traumatized," Wilson insisted. His eyes widened as House leaned on him and started to lower himself to his knees with care for his bad leg. Wilson had to fight to keep up the meaningless banter at the sight of House actually, literally going _down_ on him. "Uhb…seriously, uh, scarred for life at the sight of your…pussy genitals."

"I was clean, you jerk." House folded his legs and somehow ended up sitting mostly on his left heel. "Quit exaggerating."

"…okay." Wilson stared down as House ran his hands up Wilson's legs, then around to the backs of his thighs. "You know, I'm fine with a hand job."

"I'm not." House craned his neck and started licking at the underside of Wilson's testicles.

Wilson's eyelids fluttered and he found himself gazing stupidly at the edge of the tub past House's head. "You like doing that, don't you."

"Oral fixation, remember?" House nosed around in the crease of Wilson's thigh, his stubble tickling Wilson's rapidly reemerging erection. "You're way more fun to suck on than those other suckers."

Wilson didn't have the brain power left to register the level of insult he had just been subjected to. Actually, it might have been a compliment, so he replied, "That's nice."

House laughed against Wilson's groin and Wilson shuddered as House's breath evaporated the moisture lingering there. Fondly, House proclaimed, "Idiot."

"Mmm…cock sucker." Wilson tipped his head back and angled himself so that the shower hit his shoulders and upper back again. House ran both hands between Wilson's legs to cup his ass, forcing Wilson to widen his stance a bit. House's tongue lapped about the head of his cock and sent Wilson's eyes sliding shut. He held his body still while House played with him. A hint of teeth just below the frenulum left Wilson biting his lip over an ecstatic grunt, and then House drew back, one hand moving to cup Wilson's balls. Wilson lifted heavy lids and gazed down to see what House was doing.

"I'm thinking," House said with a mischievous glint in his eye, "that you like to watch."

Wilson's eyes opened all the way as House reached into his soaked sleep pants with his right hand, his left tickling Wilson's testicles. Wilson tried to sound casual, but he only barely made it as far as strained. "What makes you think that?"

House shrugged. "Call it a hunch. Funny, though, how you always manage to keep my hands off of myself when we have sex." Without pulling anything into view, he started tugging at himself while one wandering finger massaged Wilson's perineum.

Wilson arched an eyebrow and made a valiant attempt to hide how much that turned him on. "You find it strange that I'd prefer both your hands on _me_?" Soft ripples of pleasure radiated out through his ass and groin thanks the external prostate stimulation. Wilson dug his toes into the bottom of the tub.

"Not really. I only find it strange how adamant you are about it." House cocked his head to one side as his breathing picked up. "Seems to me you overcompensate a little bit. Don't want me to know you're such a voyeur?"

Wilson licked his lips and ran an absent finger up the underside of his penis, tracing the corpora cavernosa. Yes, because masturbating to medical terms would make the dirty narration less dirty. "What would it matter?" House's finger continued to wriggle against his perineum; it nearly drove him to distraction.

House grinned in triumph because that was as good as admitting that yes, Wilson liked to watch. But then House had to swallow in a hurry for some reason. His gaze fell to Wilson's knees and he rocked back on his heel, his left hand going to the rim of the tub for balance. Once he had recovered from whatever that was, House peered up at Wilson from under lidded eyes, his hand speeding up inside his pants. "Wanna know what I'm thinking about?"

Wilson felt himself flush at that. He flattened his palm and rubbed the underside of his penis, dipping lower to catch at his balls too. He missed House's fingers tormenting him, but his voice came in at a close second. "Yeah. Tell me."

House swallowed hard over a grunt and Wilson saw his abdominal muscles clench. "Thinking about you…on top of me." He gave a shallow thrust into his own hand and then bit his lip as he barely managed to keep a beguiling expression fixed on Wilson's face.

Wilson shuffled forward until he was towering over House and House had to lean back to maintain eye contact. Eagerly, Wilson demanded, "What else?"

"Your hands on my arms, holding me down." House's nostrils flared and he made a strangled noise as he bowed his head.

"Look at me," Wilson snapped. He wrapped his hand around himself as House lifted his eyes back up, panting with the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. God, that was so erotic – House on his knees, staring up at him like that, rapt, his hand in his pants, flannel soaked to the point where it was nearly translucent. "What else am I doing?"

"You're…touching…_fuck_." House's eyes dropped shut and he folded forward again, catching himself with his left hand on the bottom of the tub between Wilson's spread feet. House gave a full-body shudder and then whimpered, gasping shallow breaths, his hips jogging forward into each stroke.

"House." Wilson reach down and grasped the side of House's neck, fingertips splayed along his cervical vertebrae, thumb forcing his chin back up. Once House managed to meet his eyes again, clouded with lust, Wilson repeated, "What else am I doing?"

"Biting…you're biting my shoulder and…and pinching…"

Wilson kept his own hand still on his penis, convinced that House might actually talk him over the edge if he so much as flicked his cockhead. He watched House's motions speed up, though, and House moved his left hand to Wilson's wrist, anchoring himself there while Wilson held his chin up. "Am I inside you?"

House hissed, "Yes," and closed his eyes again with a whimper. "God…Wilson…"

This time, Wilson didn't ask him to look; he settled on keeping House's face tilted upward so that he could watch every moment pass in shadows and flickers over the surface of his skin. "How does it feel?" When did he get so talky anyway?

"So good," House replied, tension wracking his frame as he arched his back and raised himself toward the warmth radiating off of Wilson's body. "So much…can't think about anything…nothing, just…_god_, pressure…"

"Tell me more," Wilson encouraged. "What else am I doing to you?"

House pressed his cheek into Wilson's hand and made a low sound in the back of his throat. Then he froze for a second and arched up against Wilson. Wilson thought he'd come, but in a moment, he realized that House was trying to hold off, to deny himself.

That made Wilson breath more harshly, and he rasped, "Don't you wanna come?"

House gave a vigorous nod and peeled his eyes open to look at Wilson.

"How badly?"

House's pupils dilated on the spot at the dark warning in Wilson's voice. He didn't answer.

Wilson didn't say anything for a second either; he'd shocked himself to silence. Something had shifted between them, a power balance of some sort. Wilson wished he could claim not to like it, but…he did. God help him, he really, _really_ did.

House parted his lips to wet them. His voice trembled as he whispered, "Wilson?"

"You…" Wilson willed himself to breathe and then decided, what the hell. The worst House could do was laugh at him, right? "You have to finish me first."

House made a strange eager sound and grabbed for Wilson's hips with both hands, leaving his own cock pasted around by wet flannel. Either his enthusiasm or his own neglected arousal made House clumsy, and he fumbled his lips at the base of Wilson's bobbing erection before tracing his tongue up the edge and then sucking the tip into his mouth.

Wilson gaped down at him, taken aback and yet incredibly excited by the situation. House's tongue swiped into his slit and then over the glans, sweet suction on Wilson's cockhead, lips pursed. God, House went at him like a starving man. On a whim, Wilson ordered, "Hands behind your back."

House complied and Wilson grew lightheaded as he noticed House watching him, blue-black pits so clearly begging Wilson for something, though Wilson had no idea what that might be. His hand still rested on House's cheek, though, so he circled his thumb there, caressed House's temple and gripped the back of his neck. House leaned into the touch, the movement so faint that Wilson wasn't sure he really felt it. He tangled his fingers in House's hair, near the nape of his neck, and a surge of heat pooled in his groin. House interlaced his fingers behind his back and let Wilson hold him in place, though he stiffened minutely when Wilson exerted just enough pressure to slide House's lips halfway down his cock. He didn't protest the force at all; in fact, House looked…elated. Like this was exactly what he wanted, to be…what, used? Wilson's stomach roiled and he felt his knees go weak as he realized that House had manipulated him into this position.

Wilson balked and exclaimed, "No!" He dragged House off his cock and all but flung him back so that he had to catch himself on the rim of the tub to avoid falling off his knees into a position too awkward to get back up from. Wilson stared at him, incredulous and ashamed though he wanted so badly to just go with it, force House's head down, hold him there and feel him fight not to choke around the intrusion. Though disgusted and angry at himself more than anything else, Wilson turned his ire on House and demanded, "What the hell are you doing?"

House flinched as Wilson's voice clapped off the tiles, then gasped, "But you told me to – "

"But you _did it_!" Brilliant. That was a top-notch argument, there. Wilson rolled his eyes at himself just to escape House's bewildered stare. "I'm not – no! Just no, House – no!"

House shivered for a second, his eyes flitting around the bottom of the tub as he caught his breath. "But…" He didn't seem to have any argument available so he shook his head once, too confused to even be offended by Wilson's rejection. Finally, he settled on, "But you liked it." He pointed upwards with his index finger as if to enumerate his one lame point. The finger wiggled back and forth between them, and then House bit the inside of his cheek. After he dropped his hand, he slumped down and sighed, "Fine."

"Fine?" Wilson furrowed his brow and tried to gauge House's mood from where he stood blocking the tepid spray. He didn't even want to think about how much water they'd wasted mucking around in here. "Fine, I'm an idiot? Fine, we won't bring it up again? What?"

"Fine, you don't wanna do it like that." House gave him a sidelong glance. "It's cool. You're not comfortable with it." He shrugged and averted his gaze again. "I wasn't sure anyway; no big deal."

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "Liar. You were certain you wanted that. You wouldn't have tried it otherwise."

House huffed and then barked, "Sue me for trying to be nice to you about it! Fine, I really, _really_ wanted you to shove your cock down my throat because I've been fantasizing about it for months now, and I'm pissed off that you were into it up until you had to go and think about it, and now you have to cover your cold feet by forcing me to have some inane, boring discussion about how you respect me and you don't want to do that to me, and blah blah blah crap that I won't pay any attention to anyway – bastard." House crossed his arms like a petulant child and glowered at Wilson's feet, breathing hard.

Wilson blinked at him, then at the wall over his head, and then turned to shut off the shower. Then he faced House again, still standing over him, and pointed out, "I may have been better about it if I'd known what the hell you were doing."

"Good. Now you know. Congratulations."

"House, I'm serious! This is one of those things that you might want to discuss with your sexual partner beforehand."

House glared up at him without lifting his head. "How would that conversation go, exactly? Hey, Wilson – I'm sort of thinking I might be into consensual choking. Wanna give it a go?"

Wilson gave him a droll look, eyes narrowed, mouth drawn into a thin line. "Yeah, that might have worked, actually. Anything, House. You could've written it on a post-it note and left it stuck to my lunch."

"Great. I'll file that away for future reference."

Wilson rolled his eyes and snapped, "Oh, grow up. You know me, House. Did you actually expect me to just roll with it?"

House grumbled something unintelligible and shot death beams at the shower curtain.

"What?"

"You talk too much!" House shouted. "Why _can't_ you just roll with it? I'm a consenting adult – you _know_ I'm a consenting adult. I'd say something or just bite your dick if I didn't like it." House palmed his forehead and then made an obvious effort not to sound as immature as he had before. "You know I like it a little rough. You didn't think that maybe that meant I'd be into rough _other_ things?"

Wilson made a frustrated sound and looked away, painfully aware of his nakedness and how House was sopping wet but still wearing pants. "I don't…think about the sorts of – of _things_ you might consider doing."

"Brilliant."

"House, I'm not like that! I don't enjoy – "

"Bull. I saw your face, Wilson. You were ecstatic over having me on my knees like that. I could feel your cock throb when you told me to put my hands behind my back and I did."

Wilson balked. "Not true! I – "

House broke in, "You're a control freak – it makes sense you'd like that. Maybe I don't relish the idea of taking orders from you, but I would've gotten what I wanted too, so it didn't matter."

Wilson mashed his face into his palms and then ripped the curtain aside. "I can't believe you."

"Neither can I," House snarked. He didn't make any move to exit the tub and Wilson stepped out without offering him a hand. "I actually thought you might be open-minded, but no – you're as self-deceiving as every other poor schmuck out there too ashamed of himself to admit that he likes something non-socially-acceptable."

Wilson spun back and declared, "I _am_ open minded! I'm sleeping with you, aren't I?"

"Only when and how it suits you." House drew back far enough to be able to see Wilson's face. "You would have found an excuse tonight no matter what we were doing, and somehow, it would be _my_ fault we're not having sex." His tone turned mocking, too much sarcasm drilled into every word to mask the hurt behind them. "House, not now, you're too tired. House, not now, we've been through a lot lately. House, not now, you're on new meds or old meds or different dosages of meds and it's not a good time. House, you're not in a good frame of mind; House, you need space; House, you're being selfless." He shot Wilson a look of such loathing that Wilson recoiled a step. "Fuck you, Wilson. Is that how it started with your wives? You just found excuses not to have sex anymore, good reasons that made you out to be the kind, suffering husband?"

Wilson blinked at him in shock. "What? House, it's been less than a week since we had sex. Where are you getting all this?"

House opened his mouth to deliver an automatic retort and then caught it before it left his throat. His lip twitched and then he looked off to one side. "Okay."

Wilson frowned. "What do you mean, okay?"

"I'm…overreacting." House seemed to grow smaller where he knelt in the tub, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, smoldering gaze fixed on the floor moulding. "Making things up. I'm in a bad mood, today sucked ass…" He trailed off, and then intoned very slowly, "You hurt my feelings." Then he grimaced as if he found the admission distasteful. "Happy now?"

Wilson rolled his entire head to the side as his eyes skewed toward the door, a horizontal eye roll. "Nnooo. But thanks for saying it."

House rushed to defend himself. "I'm not lying."

"I didn't say you were, I'm just not happy that we had a misunderstanding."

House groaned and thunked his head against the rim of the tub. "No sappy heart-to-hearts! If I wanted to sleep with Doctor Phil, I'd move to California and have him kidnapped."

Of course, Wilson smiled at that; he found House's remarks far too amusing not to. What exactly did that say about him? "So…is it too late? Or was the impromptu aspect part of the turn on?"

House rested his chin on the edge of the tub and glowered at Wilson. "Suddenly, you're okay with being a closet sadist?"

"Control freak," Wilson amended. "And no. But…you were right. I sort of…liked it. And I suppose if you're…if that's…good for you, then…I could, you know. Try it again."

House rolled his eyes, and at first, Wilson thought he was giving in. "No. You ruined the appeal for me."

Wilson's eyebrows bristled as they fell between his eyes. "How? By talking about it?"

House pulled a face at the wall, embarrassed and disgusted and annoyed all at once. "Go blow dry your hair or something."

"House, I want to do it."

"The mood is dead, Wilson. Give it up."

Wilson nodded, an irrational reaction to reaching the end of his fuse. "Quit playing games with me! I'm not a patient, House – you can't diagnose me by pissing me off."

House didn't reply right away, and then he tried, "My leg hurts."

Wilson snorted. "Your leg always hurts. Quit using it as an excuse to shut me up."

"M'not," House mumbled, and Wilson finally noticed that he'd turned scarlet. "You pushed me."

Wilson's head fell to one side. "You're stuck in there, aren't you. That's why you haven't tried to get out of the tub."

"No, moron. There's nothing more comfy than sitting in the bottom of a bathtub with cold, wet pants on."

Wilson rolled his eyes and then gouged his knuckles into his forehead. "Alright." He stomped forward and House held his arms up so that Wilson could grab him around the torso. "One, two, _three_." He dragged House up while House scrambled to find purchase with his left foot. "Damn, you're heavy."

House finally gained some semblance of footing and helped Wilson pull him out to stand on the bath mat. "And you think I should eat more."

"Silly me." Wilson steadied him and then ran a hand down House's flank, glancing over the bruising that began just under House's ribs. Out of nowhere, Wilson found himself asking, "How many times did he kick you?"

House gave him a funny look, but Wilson only caught the edge of it in his periphery. "I don't remember. Three?"

"Three," Wilson echoed. He just stared at the purple-green marks, rings of varying color interspersed with shades of magenta and plum. "I heard you scream once."

House nodded, drawing his eyebrows together. "Yeah. He got my leg with the butt of the gun."

Wilson drank that in, unable to prevent his brain from cobbling together an image of that, and then nodded. He realized that he was still skimming over the marks and abruptly dropped his hand so that he could grab a towel. "Your apartment's freezing, you know." He thrust a second towel at House.

House took the towel but continued to study Wilson as if he were stuck in his office having a late night interlude with his white board. Wilson stared right back as soon as he noticed, and after a few seconds, House bit his cheek and treated the ceiling to a put-upon sigh. "I know I'm going to regret this, but…" His eyes dropped back to Wilson's. "Something on your mind?"

Wilson pursed his lips. "Only you could make that sound so condescending."

"I don't do earnest. Deal with it."

Wilson snorted. "I think we've fought enough for one night."

"Oh, no we haven't. There are still so many topics to cover. How you always work late, or this place is always a pigsty, or I don't have any respect for you as a valued member of this partnership, or you forgot our six-month anniversary, or why can't I cook dinner just _once_ – "

"Oh, shit!" Wilson panicked for a second and House gave him a puzzled look. "House – I forgot our six month anniversary."

House's nose crinkled as he fought to keep a straight face. "Out of all the things we could fight about right now, you pick that?"

"I _forgot_! House, I never forget those things!" He held up his hands more to ward himself off than House. "Don't hate me – it doesn't mean anything. I swear – "

"Wilson, shut up." House focused on drying himself off, though he didn't take off the flannel pants, and then he moved on to drying Wilson off since Wilson just stood there caught in a living still frame. "I don't do anniversaries, you girl. Quit embarrassing yourself."

Wilson blinked. "We're doomed. You know that? Our anniversary was yesterday."

House shrugged, but the thought still left him looking disconcerted. "So? All the more reason to ignore anniversaries. And since when were you into omens and _horror_scopes?"

Wilson squirmed as House scrubbed at his hair with the towel. "Knock it off."

"No." House wrapped the towel around the back of Wilson's head and then used it to yank him in for an unexpected kiss. "Maybe you should look at it like, we survived yesterday." House immediately adopted a scornful attitude. "Not that I'm advocating being a dork like that, I just thought you might fall for it. You're a sucker for that crap."

Wilson squinted at him. "You are so full of shit."

House gave him an exasperated look, but it wasn't like he could deny it. "You like my shit."

"Mm." Wilson gave House a quick once-over, and then shrugged the towel off. "Believe what you want."

House made a face at him. "Plagiarist. I distinctly recall using that line on you once."

"Good. Then we're on the same page."

They glared at each other for several seconds without any true ire, and then it was like a damn broke. Before Wilson knew what was happening, they were trying to yank each other's ears off to smash their faces together. Wilson whimpered into House's mouth and shoved his tongue forward only to meet House's in the meager space separating their lips. Wilson fumbled to peel House's sodden sleep pants from his hips, all the while sucking lewdly on House's tongue, but all he could manage was to roll them down. House struggled against them too, his fingernails gouging Wilson's shoulder for balance while he attacked Wilson's mouth and tried to rip the pants off with his other hand.

It took forever, but between the two of them and their clumsy fingers, they rolled the damn pants down past House's knees, and then Wilson decided he'd had enough. He dragged House into the bedroom and propelled him down on the unmade bed. Then he knelt long enough to yank the damn sleep pants off House's ankles. Wilson had barely pulled himself back to his feet before House's hands latched around the back of his neck, and they were kissing again, teeth grinding together, House's good leg thrown across the backs of Wilson's knees to pin him against the mattress.

Wilson groped for something worth handling and found House's left thigh conveniently within reach. With his mouth occupied and devoured, Wilson ran his hand up until he reached House's hip, and then he dug his thumb into the space between House's leg and his balls. House grunted at that and bit Wilson's lip, then sucked at it brutally. Wilson growled and shifted his grip to House's half-hard cock, and House whimpered as Wilson purposefully squeezed too hard.

A second later, House pulled back and gasped, "Cuffs. I want – "

"No." Wilson recaptured his lips to silence him, his fingers still clenched around House's penis in a grip sure to hurt.

House cut off a moan and tore himself away to swallow. "But – "

"I'll hold you down," Wilson promised. A thrill accompanied the words and Wilson noted the fine shiver that they produced in House's body.

House groaned in wanton concession and grabbed Wilson's waist with both hands, fingers curled around just enough softness to lend a good solid handhold. He let Wilson nudge him all the way up onto the bed, and Wilson climbed up between his legs, his mouth wandering down to House's collarbone in a sloppy mess of teeth and saliva. He bit gently at a few random juts of clavicle, and then moved on to latch his mouth over a nipple. House seized a fist full of Wilson's hair to hold him in place as he arched up into Wilson's mouth, but Wilson grabbed House's wrist. After a brief struggle, House let Wilson's hair slide through his fingers and Wilson bit down on the firm nub that he had been teasing.

"Ahhh!" House quaked for a moment, distracted long enough for Wilson to slam his arm into the mattress and lean on it. House merely used his other hand to twist at Wilson's hair, so Wilson ducked back out of reach and scrabbled for that wrist too. He eventually succeeded in pinning it against House's chest, and then he eased his knees up under House's thighs, forcing them farther apart.

Even though Wilson already knew what House wanted right now, he leaned down toward House's ear and growled, "I'm on top."

"Yes, okay," House gasped, tugging weakly at his pinned wrists. Wilson moved House's other hand up to his chest and crossed them there to hold with one hand while he cupped House's face tenderly with the other. House's eyes blinked open, lids heavy and pupils nebulous in the darkened room. He looked confused for a second and then he nuzzled Wilson's palm and tried to suckle at the inside of Wilson's wrist like an overgrown puppy.

Wilson craned his neck around to replace his wrist with his mouth in House's attention, and then crushed House's head back into the bedding, lips undulating over House's scratchy chin, the blade of his tongue delving into House's mouth to force his way as deep as possible. House gave a throaty groan and arched his pelvis though there was nothing there to provide him with any friction, twisting his wrists under Wilson's hand just for the sake of feeling it.

Wilson leaned harder against his chest and House struggled to get his left leg hooked over Wilson's back. At that point, Wilson happened to glance between them, and he caught a glimpse of the series of angry red cuts scored across House's left thigh, shallow red strings etched into the most sensitive patch of skin he could find. Wilson broke off, consumed with staring at them, and then he looked back at House's face. House's eyes were closed and he had arched his neck ever so slightly, panting hard while he waited for Wilson to do whatever he wanted. It took nearly a minute for House to realize that they had hit an impasse, and he twitched when Wilson ran the pads of his fingers over the neat row of cuts.

"Wilson?" House gasped for a deep breath and regained a measure of Wilson's attention by flexing his back to squirm under Wilson's hand, which pressed his wrists into his sternum.

"I can't believe you cut yourself," Wilson remarked mostly to himself. "Why would you do that?"

House twisted one wrist free and reached to brush the side of Wilson's face. "Don't, please. I was desperate."

Wilson's eyes fell to other parts of House's body as he nodded and he felt his brow crumpling under the weight of knowing where all those marks came from. They shouldn't get too rough; House had kidney damage. They needed to go easy for a while. Lyamone… Wilson shuddered and shut his eyes on the image that rose in his mind, red all over the place, a gun jammed into the back of his neck, House about to hand a child over to die just to get Wilson out of there in one piece… It was almost pretty, the starburst and the crimson halo, the mist suspended in the air, House's face turned away to hide from the sight of the red…

"Wilson!"

"Stop." Wilson didn't know who he was talking to, but he felt House's hands curled around with side of his face and neck. It made him clench his eyes more tightly, his entire face scrunched up in the effort not to look, but the pictures were inside his head; he couldn't blot them out that way.

"Wilson, it's okay. Open up." House tapped one of Wilson's eyelids and coaxed, "Come back."

Wilson shook his head even though House's hands hampered the movement, and then he tried to yank House's fingers off of his face. Bad timing – he couldn't do this here – no. House didn't need to deal with him being a flake; he had his own problems right now and he didn't find solace in helping other people the way Wilson did. House refused to let go, though, and Wilson tore frantically at his hands to get him off. That bubble in his chest, the one that had been sitting there for almost two days now…it was about to burst, red mist sprayed across rumpled sheets. Wilson was talking even before he heard his own voice, choking out denials and threats and begging House to let go, now –

"Hey, no. You have to breathe. Wilson, breathe. You're having a panic attack. I'm not going anywhere."

"No, House, just – " Wilson clawed at the backs of House's hands but it didn't make any difference to House. No, he felt trapped – he couldn't – god, so much blood and the screech of the flatline and pennies, he hated pennies – "Asshole! You stupid, selfish parasite – let go of me!"

"Wilson, your pulse is too high." House was using some doctory tone that Wilson hadn't known he possessed: calm and soothing, pitched low to avoid offending his senses, his pronunciation deliberate, words clear. "You need to calm down or I'm calling an ambulance. Just breathe, Wilson. James…come on, count with me." He started counting for Wilson to time his respirations. Four-count in, eight-count out…

Wilson coughed and his voice came out reedy, a whine if he ever heard one. He cringed as it passed his lips. "Don't…be House, don't taunt him…"

"I'm not taunting anybody," House assured him. He had shifted one hand to run down Wilson's bicep, the other still gripped around the back of Wilson's neck, holding his head down near his knees. They were on the bed still, but Wilson didn't recall changing position. When Wilson's breathing turned uneven again, House resumed counting. His voice did more for Wilson than the numbers themselves, a low rumbled litany in a familiar baritone.

"You're…no blankets."

"Okay," House agreed, though he couldn't possibly know what Wilson was talking about.

Truth be told, Wilson didn't even know for sure what he meant. His vocal chords had divorced themselves from his higher reasoning centers. "I think…I got blood on the floor. It was on my…shoes. I need new shoes."

House stroked his thumb down Wilson's back and then splayed his palm between Wilson's shoulder blades, pressing lightly down. "We'll get you some new shoes. Brown ones. Match your eyes."

"Okay." Wilson struggled to keep counting, four in and eight out. "You really…would have." Wilson fumbled to wrap his mind around the too-vivid scene in the hospital room, the look on House's face when he decided Wilson was worth more. "You're a moron."

House gave a fond snort, though once again, he probably had no idea what Wilson meant. One finger traced intricate patterns on Wilson's back, like fractals. Peaceful green fractals. "Keep breathing, Wilson. Pulse is still up there."

"You're making green lines," Wilson informed him.

"Really." House shifted on the bed, sheets rustling, pulling at the fabric under Wilson's calves. "Wilson, did you take something?"

Wilson thought about that for second, his thoughts muddied, and…he was having a panic attack. He knew that – House had told him that. "Granted, I think."

The puzzled frown came through in House's tone. "Okay." He also sounded a little impatient.

Wilson's pulse sped up and he opened his eyes on a panorama of twisted sheets occluding the edge of a pillow. "No, don't sound like that, don't – House, I didn't mean to do that – "

"Okay, okay – Jesus, Wilson." House left off holding his head down and managed to slip both arms over Wilson's chest instead, hugging him back into his stomach, just like last time, in the street. "You're scaring me."

Wilson clawed at the forearms cinched around his chest and abdomen, straining to arch away from him, and then he started crying. He couldn't stop, he couldn't control himself, he was worrying House – House the jerk, the cold-hearted misanthrope was scared for him. "No – no, I'm sorry, no," Wilson babbled. "Don't – don't go, please…"

Exasperated, House mumbled, "I'm won't. Relax, Wilson. Do you want me to count again so you can breathe with me?"

"I don't need CPR – you cracked his breastbone." Wilson quaked for a second and then hiccupped as House started counting after all, but Wilson couldn't keep up.

House insisted, "Breathe, James. You were doing okay a minute ago." He thumped Wilson's chest with two fingers, right over Wilson's racing heart. "Jimmy, now. Inhale."

Wilson sucked in a shuddering breath, tripped up by his own throat and the squeezing sensation there. Tension, tension, tension…

"Now out." House's fingers spread out over Wilson's sternum; the man's hands were huge. "Good. That's good. In again, come on. Wilson, in."

"I can't…no, it won't go away."

"What won't go away?" House tried to coax him to breathe more regularly by rubbing his sternum and mumbling more numbers in his ear; they sounded random to Wilson's swirling brain. "Talk, Wilson. Tell me what won't go away."

"You can't talk – I told you no." Wilson tried to hold himself still, but he was shivering and squirming without conscious volition.

House purred, "Since when do I listen to you?" He was really working to keep Wilson calm – Wilson could tell that much at least from the unyielding grip about his upper body. God, no, that meant House really was scared – he was being nice because Wilson was an idiot. "Wilson…you can talk about whatever you want right now – I won't stop you. Promise."

Wilson shook his head, hair flopping around in damp clumps from both the earlier shower and the cold sweat he had broken out in. Why hadn't he noticed before – he'd stood in the shower for so long that his fingertips had pruned. "I have wrinkles." He held his fingers up for House to see.

House rested his chin on Wilson's shoulder and smiled against Wilson's neck. "Yeah. You're getting old, Jimmy."

"Prick." Wilson's heartbeat had slowed considerably; he could feel his thoughts realigning as he sorted himself out.

"Yeah." House pressed his lips to Wilson's neck. At first, Wilson took it for a simple comforting gesture and his insides warmed at the thought, but House touched on a few different places before settling over the carotid. He was taking Wilson's pulse.

Wilson tried not to feel let down by that, but he sighed anyway. "You don't actually want to talk to me. It's okay; you don't have to."

House inhaled with his nose behind Wilson's ear, an act that carried absolutely no medical excuse. "I'm sorry, Wilson. I don't know what else to say."

Wilson nodded. Since House had already offered up any topic for dissection, Wilson asked, "Why couldn't you tell me you pulled a gun on your dad? Did you think I wouldn't understand?"

Against the sensitive skin of his neck, Wilson felt House's eyelids drift shut. He tried to muffle his words in Wilson's shoulder, but Wilson heard them in spite of that. "I wasn't trying to shoot my dad."

Wilson lifted his head a bit, suddenly aware of House's weight over his shoulders and back, and the careful way in which House avoided touching his sore tailbone. "Then…did you…was it a…" He didn't want to say 'suicide attempt.' The thought of a twelve-year-old Greg putting a gun in his own mouth, glittering blue eyes fixed on the trigger, was just too horrifying to contemplate.

House shook his head; he knew how Wilson's mind worked. "I wish."

The adrenaline surged through Wilson's blood anew and he stiffened in House's arms, heart racing in spite of the calm he had achieved. "You don't mean that – you don't wish you were dead, House. You don't."

"No, I don't – that came out wrong. I just meant…" House sighed and dropped his face back into the crook of Wilson neck. "Damn you, anyway. Why do you have to be such a goody two shoes?"

Wilson blinked and forced his breathing back into rhythm: four in, eight out. "I need something…Xanax. You still have Xanax, right?"

House lifted his head far enough to peer at the side of Wilson's face, and then nodded. "Don't move. I'll tackle you again if I have to."

Wilson shook his head to indicate his cooperation. "I wouldn't make you do that. You'd complain for the next week if I did, and then I'd have to kill you." He tasted something sour in the back of his throat at the ill-worded jibe. Any other time, that would be funny, part of their customary banter. "Or not, really."

House squeezed him once before letting go and Wilson turned his head to watch House clamber off the bed. Wilson propped himself on his palms, resting some of his upper body weight there while he waited for House to come back. He quelled an irrational urge to scuttle off to the living room and tidy up the mess of picked-over food that House had no doubt left in there. He knew House was serious about tackling him, joking tone aside. Wilson really didn't want him to misinterpret his actions and body slam him in the hallway.

"Here." House hop-stepped back into the bedroom and held out a pill, which Wilson accepted. He pulled a face and dry-swallowed because House evidently couldn't get a Dixie cup of water in here without spilling it; his cane had gone AWOL. "You better?"

Wilson nodded. "I'll be fine in a few minutes." He shot House a sheepish grimace. "Sorry."

House shrugged and perched himself on the edge of the bed, careful to lean to the left. Though Wilson would have liked him to resume the thinly veiled cuddling, House merely sat there and poked at the purple splotches covering his thigh.

Wilson watched him for a moment, mesmerized by the methodical manner in which House catalogued degrees of hurt, seemingly oblivious to the pain inherent in digging at livid, bruised flesh. When it didn't look like House was inclined to stop any time soon, Wilson frowned and pulled his hand away from his leg.

House sighed and then puffed his cheeks out, his eyes trained on the wall beside the dresser. "Okay," House said. "You win. I'll talk."

Unable to believe his ears, Wilson's first utterance was an indignant, "Why?" Like House had insulted him by taking away the aggravation of the puzzle.

"Because I think…I mean, maybe I just don't…" House grumbled incoherently, frustrated by his stunted vocabulary, and rolled his eyes. "I don't know, Wilson." He took to jabbing at his leg with his index finger, purple changing hue as he depressed the skin at random.

Wilson dragged his hand away again and kept it clasped to his own stomach. For once, House didn't try to pull free or shrug him off, or manufacture distance between them. He just sat there, gloomy and irritated. It made Wilson think of the dark blue Care Bear with the storm cloud on his belly: Grumpy Bear? Grouchy…no, Grouchy was the Smurf. It was definitely Grumpy Bear. God, he hung out with kids too often. Out loud, all Wilson offered was, "I won't push." He was actually sort of relieved to have the focus shift to House instead of his ridiculous anxiety attack.

"Yeah. Wilson… This isn't…comfortable. I'm not comfortable here."

"Okay." Wilson hugged his fingers with both hands and suggested, "Should we get dressed? Go to another room? I could put on your iPod and pretend I'm not listening."

House laughed at that last one, a jittery sound and yet a welcome break in the oppressive atmosphere that suddenly engulfed the room. "No, that's not it." He turned pensive and Wilson thought that House's complexion may have paled a bit; it was too dim to know for sure. "Um. I don't know how to ask this."

House's fingers spasmed in Wilson's grip and Wilson laced them more tightly together. "Just say it. You can't embarrass yourself tonight – I already hogged that honor."

A light guffaw escaped House's lips; again, it was a nervous reaction, beyond House's control. He took a shaky breath and then decided that the nightstand had become the most fascinating thing in the whole of creation.

Maybe Wilson's gentle attempts at humor were only making this harder; he couldn't really know. Hesitantly, he prompted, "House?"

"I want the cuffs." House gasped in a few shallow breaths after he said it, like that admission had cost him dearly.

Wilson blinked and stopped himself mid head-shake. "I…I don't understand."

"I want it like…on my birthday. When…I can't just…" He made a mortified sound and bowed his head, his entire face flushing scarlet. "God, Wilson – _please_ don't do this to me."

"Do what?" Wilson gripped House's fingers, which had gone lax in his grasp, probably the better to slip free at the first opportunity. "I thought we were talking. You said you wanted to – "

Without warning, House wrenched his fingers free and made to stand up. "Forget it. It's not a big deal anyway."

"House, wait!" Wilson grabbed his arm and pulled him back far enough that he couldn't obtain the sort of leverage he needed to stand. "Whatever you want! I'm not judging you, I'm not _anything_. You just took me off guard. I'll get the cuffs out if it helps you, just stay." After a few seconds, some of the tension bled from House's frame and Wilson let him straighten back up to sit properly. Wilson swallowed as House quieted; he had never been no unnerved at gaining the upper hand in his life. "So, um…what-what exactly do you want me to…to do?"

House hung his head and absently sucked on his lower lip.

Wilson's mouth went dry. "You…you want me to _force_ you to talk? To…" His voice fell to a bare squeak in the still air. "…um, hurt you until you…tell me?"

House gave a noncommittal shrug, but it only highlighted his unease and the seriousness of his unspoken request. If he didn't want it so badly, he wouldn't still be here, sitting hunched under Wilson's incredulous stare.

"…No." Wilson shook his head. "No, I can't…House, for…" Wilson dribbled off into incoherence and felt his stomach sink as House seemed to draw into himself at having brought it up. "Why can't you just talk? Just spit out some words?"

"It's not just talk," House murmured softly, subdued by the intensity of his own shame. He was too mortified at this point to sound indignant.

Wilson waited for him to spew out some better reason, a rationalization that could make this okay for Wilson, but he didn't. Eventually, Wilson had to look down and settle on a firm though apologetic, "No. I told you before, I can't do that. It doesn't feel right."

"Okay." House heaved a deep breath and then abruptly climbed to his feet. Wilson let him leave the room this time. The bathroom door snicked shut down the hall – not slammed. House merely closed it in quiet, non-accusatory resignation. The lack of temper gave Wilson pause.

Wilson breathed deep in the silence. House had known the odds of Wilson rejecting him, and yet, he had risked asking anyway. Wilson wanted to dismiss that, but he couldn't shake the gravity of knowing how desperately House thought he needed that. He was wondering if maybe he should swallow his insecurities and just do it when he heard House leave the bathroom. To Wilson's surprise, he limped back into the bedroom and motioned at Wilson to move over; Wilson had expected him to go brood in the living room, maybe even sleep on the couch just to avoid the possibility of Wilson bringing it up again. After recovering from the unexpected normalcy behind House's behavior – normal for other people, not for House – Wilson rolled off to his own side of the bed.

They spent way too much time untangling blankets and divvying up the sheets before they settled back, the only illumination provided by the bathroom light, which House always left on with the door cracked so that he wouldn't trip in the dark. Wilson spared a thought for the greasy, congealing fast food banquet in the living room, but warmth radiated across the bed from House's supine body, and he didn't feel like cleaning it up. Though he steeled himself to be rebuffed, Wilson reached across the mattress to paw at House's arm. House surprised him yet again by encouraging him to scoot over, and Wilson draped himself over House's side, his left leg slung between House's, head pillowed on House's chest. And no, he didn't care that he had just adopted the girl pose.

After a little while, when it became apparent that neither of them were in danger of nodding off, Wilson offered, "I'm sorry about your mom."

House didn't answer right away, and then he declared. "She didn't mean it."

Wilson tried to catch his eye but all he could see from this angle were nose hairs. "You forgive her for all of that? For what she said?"

House shrugged. "She didn't do anything wrong."

That left Wilson hollow inside, and he settled his head against House's chest again, comforted by the rhythmic pulse of House's heart under his ear. He moved his hand up to House's face and swiped his thumb over House's cheekbone. There was nothing to wipe away, though; House's face was dry. Somehow, that was worse than finding silent tears. "It's that simple?"

Again, House shrugged. "I love her."

Wilson turned his face in against House's skin, tickled by sparse chest hair until he wrinkled his nose. "It can't be that simple."

House's hand migrated so smoothly to Wilson's hair that he almost didn't notice. "Yeah it can be."

How could _that_, of all things, be simple? "You need that illusion too?"

"Maybe." House was petting him at this point, though Wilson didn't think it prudent to react. "I love you, too."

Wilson felt nauseous. "Please don't say that." The irony of saying that was not lost on him.

"It's okay," House assured him, though Wilson didn't think House knew exactly what he was sanctioning. It was one of those platitudes that usually grated on House's nerves.

"No," Wilson countered. "It's not."

House sighed and then conceded, "No, it's not."

Wilson let out a slow breath and ran his hand down the column of House's neck. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmed with exhaustion.

"Go to sleep," House murmured. He kept petting Wilson's hair and toying with the wisps at the nape of his neck. Eventually, it lulled Wilson down, helped along by the Xanax that continued to filter through his system. Before he could drop off, though, he heard House breathe, "I _do_ love you."

Those four insistent words filled Wilson with unspeakable sadness. He didn't want to be lumped in a group with House's mom, where any hurt could go overlooked because an illusion of fondness was worth more. His thoughts wandered to Blythe, and to cryptic remarks and half-hints uttered over the past month. The last thought that trickled through Wilson's mind was that if House hadn't pulled a gun on his father, and he hadn't been trying to kill himself, then the only other person in the house that day must have been Blythe. At twelve years old, little Greg House had tried to shoot his mother.

--TBC


	24. Chapter 24

Wilson woke late the next morning to House's ground phone blaring near his ear. He felt like crap, gummed over and exhausted, and painfully aware of the vacant spot beside him in bed. A muted sense of urgency plied his sluggish brain and he listened to House pick up the phone in the next room, mumble snark and spite at whoever had dared to call him, and then slam the phone down. It was Friday, Wilson thought. They should do something, go somewhere… Wilson realized he was stir crazy; he couldn't sit here like this any longer, confined to an apartment with House and melodrama and pills and all their issues stuffed inside five tiny rooms in the space between all the random crap that House had pack-ratted over the past decade.

Wilson tumbled out of bed and somehow still landed on his feet, groggy and cranky at the rude awakening and how lonesome the bed felt when House wasn't in it. There were clean clothes in a laundry basket near the closet and Wilson pulled out a pair of his jeans and a sweater. Once dressed, he stomped barefoot out into the living room and flopped down on the couch next to House. Then he belatedly took in House's haggard appearance, clad as he was in flannel pants and an old holey band tee. "You need to shave."

House glowered across the couch at him and then slumped back to cast forbidding looks at the furniture. "Somebody's pissy when they don't get any." He scooted away from Wilson until he hit the armrest of the couch, and then grabbed a pill bottle off of the table beside him.

Wilson looked at him the moment he heard pills rattling around. "How many of those have you had today?"

House paused in the act of uncapping it and eyed Wilson like his tongue had gotten stuck in his throat. Without a word, he gave the amber bottle a wistful look and then held it out toward Wilson.

"How many, House?"

House shied and averted his gaze at the uncustomary edge to Wilson's voice, but he didn't take back the extended bottle. "Two."

Wilson swiped the pills from his fist and shoved them into his own pocket with a wordless grumble, ignoring House's painfully blue eyes as they lit on him from across the couch.

"Wilson?"

"Hm?" He glanced to his right, and the hurt look on House's face actually made him angrier.

House quickly found something else to stare at. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." Wilson fumed in silence, wondering what, indeed, he was so pissed about. House hadn't done anything typically reckless yet, not today. Not in several days, actually. His eyes roved across the room in search of an explanation, and he noticed all of the takeout containers still spread out in front of him, some of the food grown soggy as it cooled or warmed to room temperature. He glared at House. "You couldn't even throw one thing out, House?"

"Sorry," House mumbled, clearly unnerved. He tried to cover up how hard he flinched when Wilson threw himself to his feet and started grabbing trash off the table.

"You've got three legs, House. How can you be so lazy?" As Wilson turned, he spied something suspicious in House's lap; it took him a second to recognize the neat bundle of letters that Blythe had given him. "What are you doing?"

House cringed as Wilson made to grab the letters, and tucked them safely in against his stomach to keep Wilson from taking them. "Wilson, knock it off. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"You're a gullible, self-deceiving hypocrite, and I'm not gonna let you lie anymore!" Wilson dropped the takeout containers, aware of the mess they made as they fell and splattered all over the floor, but he needed both hands if he expected to pry House's fingers off of all of those neatly printed falsehoods. "Let go!"

"Wilson, stop!" House refused to relinquish the letters, not even when they threatened to tear, and Wilson planted a hand against House's chest to give him better leverage.

A barrage of paper erupted between them the moment the rubber band broke, dried out and brittle as it was, and Wilson staggered back, one lone letter to his name. The rest of them fluttered all over the place and Wilson watched in a daze as House fell gracelessly from the couch to catch them up off the floor before Wilson could try to steal any more of them.

House finished gathering every letter in reach from his crumpled position by the coffee table, and then he glared up at Wilson, incredulous. "What the fuck?"

"I just thought…I don't know." Wilson blinked down at him. "Are you okay?"

Emboldened by Wilson's return to comparative normalcy, House leaned up and snatched the letter that Wilson was holding. "Fine, thank you. Nut job."

Wilson ran an absent hand through his hair while deliberating with the couch over House's shoulder. Then he took a tentative step toward House and reached down. All he meant to do was help him up but House twisted to keep the letters away from him like a homeless man hoarding precious morsels of half-spoiled fruit. The feverish glint in his eyes as he glared over his shoulder merely added to that impression.

Wilson backed off immediately, dimly horrified and yet still furious in the deep chambers of his heart. Abruptly, the realization filtered through that he shouldn't be here. He wasn't…rational. "Sorry," he muttered. "House, I'm gonna go."

House dropped the letters into his lap and straightened to see Wilson better. "Go where?"

"Just…go," Wilson replied, his voice hollow. That should scare him. "I shouldn't be here right now."

House merely stared at him, his face open. After a moment, he offered haltingly, "I don't think that's a good idea."

Wilson nodded, but he countered, "I think it is. Look at…look." He indicated the letters sliding in a cascade from House's thighs. "And you…House, I'm afraid I'll hurt you. I'm afraid…" He searched for more examples, his gaze wending across the room, trailing invisible wisps of smoke. Then he settled on, "I'm afraid." How could make that pronouncement so bland?

House nodded, licking his lips the whole time. "Okay. That's fine, Wilson. You don't have to go just for that. We can call somebody… Your therapist?"

Wilson perked up at that; he sensed his escape hidden in there. "Yeah. I should talk to her." He gave a vigorous nod and smiled at House, desperate to make it convincing though he wasn't sure why it mattered. "Now. I'll go now." He rocked on his feet and then meandered out from in front of the couch. He needed socks and he had his shoes stashed around here someplace.

Behind him, he heard House cursing as he struggled back to his feet. "Wilson? I meant we could call her."

From the bedroom, Wilson called, "No, that's okay. I'll go to her office. I have an appointment anyway."

House's sudden proximity should have alarmed him, but when he pulled his head from his dresser drawer, he didn't even jump to find House behind him. "You have an appointment?"

Wilson shrugged that off, the definition of casual. "Yeah."

House squinted at him. "You're lying."

"Phht." Wilson edged past him and strode from the room. As he retreated, he yelled, "Just because you avoid psychiatrists like the plague, doesn't mean the rest of us share your revulsion."

"I don't avoid the plague," House pointed out, his words sharpened by his urgent limping down the hall to catch Wilson.

"Fine. You avoid them like they carry the Hanta virus. Same argument applies."

House emerged from the hallway and grasped a bookshelf to keep from keeling over, panting at the exertion. "Wilson?"

Wilson paused, hunched with one foot in the air to pull on his loafer. "Where's your cane?" Then he shrugged without waiting for the answer. "You're fine." House must have hit the floor harder than he'd noticed when he had lunged for all those letters. "You should take it easy. You still have a kidney that needs healing, and your leg can't be helping matters."

"Yeah, I know." House took several faltering steps in Wilson's direction and then balanced precariously on his god leg. "Will you just sit down for a minute? Let me call Chase. We can…I dunno. Have lunch?"

Wilson pulled a face and laughed so that even he could hear the jagged frays at the end of it. "What's up with you? All of a sudden you want to hang out with a bunch of old work buddies?"

"No," House argued, his tone making it obvious that he thought Wilson was being a polite twit. "I thought it would be nice to finish all that food before it goes bad, and to do it with my…you, and a friend."

Wilson smiled at that and tucked his chin to examine his shoe laces. "That's sweet, House, but not right now. Maybe tomorrow? Saturdays are probably better for Chase anyway." He did up the laces and then made short work of his other shoe. When he straightened and wiggled his feet to make sure he hadn't tied them too tightly, he discovered House staring at him. "What? Do I have something on my face?" He scrubbed at his cheeks on a reflex, which reminded him that he hadn't shaved in two days. "Hm." He frowned at his abraded palm and turned toward the door, his whole being abstract.

"Hey, Wilson – hold up."

Wilson glanced back at House and then waved him off. "No, it's okay. You stay here. Watch your soaps, relax – you need it." He slipped out the door and pulled it closed even though House was starting to argue. The click of the door effectively cut him off and Wilson bounded through the foyer, aiming for fresh air.

"Wilson!"

"Bye, House. Don't break anything while I'm gone."

"Dammit – cripple here!" House gimped after him and all but hopped down the three steps to the sidewalk. Breathless, his voice pinched, he snapped, "Will you wait?"

Wilson rounded on the sidewalk just to make sure he was managing on his own, and smiled again. "It's fine, House. I'm just going to the hospital, okay? You don't need to worry."

"Well, _some_body has to worry about you. You're sixty watts short of a light bulb." He grunted as he stepped wrong and came to a stuttering halt on the sidewalk, one hand automatically resting on his thigh. "Hey…I need your help." He hooked his thumb over his shoulder and tried on a sheepish expression. "Left my cane inside. Can't do the steps alone."

"Heh. Right, House. You'll be fine." Wilson danced around his car and keyed open the door.

House's face reflected outrage, plus something more urgent. "Hey, jackass – _cripple_." He pointed at his leg and then scowled so darkly at a passerby that the guy jogged past just to get away faster. Rolling his eyes, House finally resorted to whining. "Wilson, come on. You're gonna let me drag my disabled ass up all those steps, alone, in pain?"

Wilson paused, one foot in his car, and then gave House a tolerant smirk. "Nice one," he conceded, pointing at House with his keys. "You're playing me." With a fond shake of his head, he lowered himself into his Volvo and pulled the door shut. The smash of fists on his hood and the shudder that reverberated through his car took him by surprise.

He peered out the windshield, startled to find House planted in front of his car, palms on either side of his absent hood ornament, wearing his deepest, fiercest scowl. "Get out of the car."

Wilson pursed his lips and turned his head in conjunction with his eye roll. He opened his window and stuck his head out to snap, "House, go back inside. You're making a fool of yourself."

"Not unless you come with me."

Wilson muttered under his breath and then slammed his hands against the steering wheel. The horn blared, causing House to scuttle back in surprise, and Wilson switched on the ignition. Over the din of the engine, he yelled, "I'm just going to see Olivia. Move!"

House stumbled back to Wilson's car and used it to support himself again. "Olivia…Turner?" Of course – he had probably seen her name on his pill bottle. "Yeah, okay. I'll come with you."

"What? No!" Wilson put the car in drive and stared House down. Exasperated, he shouted, "It's therapy, House! You can't come with me."

"I'll wait in the lobby. We can get lunch afterwards."

"What the hell is your problem?"

House made a face, but he still looked worried – too worried. "I want to make sure you're not sleeping with her. That doc is _hot_."

Wilson frowned. "House, get out of the way before I mow you down." He glanced in his rearview mirror, but there was a car parked behind him; he could only go forward.

House leered at him. "Threesome?"

Persistent bastard. "House, get the fuck out from in front of my car!"

"Let me come with you." House was close to pleading by now. "That's all I want, Wilson. Please."

Please. House never said please unless he meant it. Wilson spluttered out an annoyed sigh and then threw his hands up before he slammed the car into park and jabbed the unlock button. "Fine. Get in."

House looked so relieved that Wilson simmered down a bit, but he still didn't appreciate being manipulated like this. Once House had hobbled his way into the passenger seat, he turned sideways and bored holes into the side of Wilson's head with his unyielding gaze. "So, then. Hop to it. You wouldn't wanna be late, would you?"

Wilson glared from the corner of his eye but put the car in drive and eased into traffic. Under his breath, he muttered, "I hate you."

He didn't think House heard him until after they had spent nearly five minutes in silence, weaving through traffic faster than Wilson normally drove. In a small voice, House asked, "Do you mean that?"

Wilson sighed. "Of course not."

"Okay. Good." House nodded and then focused his gaze out the windshield, swaying quietly with the car in a parody of serenity.

The air between them felt oppressive, thick as porridge. Wilson noticed that House hadn't buckled seat belt, but he didn't bother to comment on it. House was a _consenting adult_, after all; he could do as he liked. God, even Wilson's inner voice mocked him now.

They made it to PPTH in average time, traffic being light since rush hour had passed. Wilson pulled into his labeled parking spot and switched off the ignition even though his Volvo was slightly crooked. Without looking at House, he flung his seat belt off and stormed out of the car in a bundle of taut nerves and confusion. All he wanted right now was to get away, he decided. That would do for now – just to not have to talk to anyone or pretend to be in a good mood or smile like an airhead when he didn't feel like it.

He didn't see House pulling himself awkwardly from the Volvo behind him, and he certainly didn't notice the panic-stricken way House hung off the car door and scanned the surrounding parking lot for some implement to help him walk. PPTH opened in front of Wilson and he stalked inside, disintegrating from the inside. He could get some coffee, and then he could hide in his office, and eventually, everything would be alright again.

* * *

Wilson sat in a booth in the emptiest corner of the cafeteria he could find, hunched over a cheap cup of burnt coffee loaded with so much sugar that even _he_ could hardly stand it, brooding at the pocked surface of the table in front of him. His leg was bouncing under the table and for once, he made no move to stop it, his hackles raised to warn off anyone of too cheery a disposition.

"James! Fancy meeting you here."

Wilson looked up and scowled at Olivia Turner, erstwhile psychiatrist. "Hi." He hoped that the unspoken vulgarities in his tone would serve to send her on her way, but no. Olivia was as bad as House. His voice pointedly devoid of friendliness, Wilson asked, "Something I can do for you?"

Olivia smiled in manufactured ignorance. "I just had _the_ strangest session. Wanna hear about it?"

"Isn't that illegal? Discussing confidential patient – "

"Oh, House gave his consent. I can say anything I want." Olivia gave him a toothy grin and slid onto the bench across from him.

"Lovely." Wilson contemplated his coffee, wondering if maybe cream would render it palatable. "I'll tell him to quit bothering you."

"Isn't that sweet." Olivia lounged back and tapped a pen against the laminate tabletop. She was probably trying to irritate him on purpose. "So there I am, minding my own business, and this total bastard just barges into my office. In his pajamas! He was totally barefoot and everything, and my first thought is, great! Some cracked patient was making a lame-ass escape attempt via my humble office, but then of course, I recognized the Cashew King. He should really stop pelting people with roasted nuts."

Wilson knuckled his forehead with one hand and gave a weary sigh. "Olivia, please. Just get to your point. Do you want me to talk to him?"

Olivia snorted at nothing in particular, not even looking at Wilson while she rambled. "So first off, he demands to know if I'm treating you. So I tell him yes. Hell, if you two are sleeping together, he's probably already discovered my name on your prescription bottle. And _then_ he gets up in my face and demands to know where an idiot like me gets off calling myself a psychiatrist, because apparently, I've failed to notice that one of my regular patients is having a nervous breakdown." She finally pierced Wilson with an appraising stare. "So, how many make-believe therapy sessions have we had now? Three? Four?"

Wilson glared into his coffee for a moment, and then exclaimed, "He has no right butting into _my_ life!"

"Oh, come on. I think it's cute." Olivia grinned at him. "You know, I didn't even think House was capable of giving a damn, but _wow_, you should have seen it. If he weren't so livid, I think he might have actually cried."

Wilson made a wordless sound of disgust and then grabbed the edge of the table to pull himself out of the booth.

"No, you don't." Olivia slid free of her seat and then jammed Wilson back across the bench to block his escape. "Don't make a scene, now. Did you actually hit him? He said you did. And _then _he claimed that you went ape over a pile of meaningless old letters this morning. That is so cool, James. You're totally losing it! And here I thought you were such a nice little cancer man."

Wilson balked and scanned the items in front of him, searching for a way out. "He's playing you. I'm fine."

"No you're not." Olivia wiggled in her seat on a pretense of getting more comfortable. "I brought you something." She produced two pill bottles out of nowhere and plunked them down near Wilson's hand; Wilson recoiled. "He's afraid you're suicidal."

"No, I'm – "

"You told him you might be contemplating it."

"_He's_ suicidal!" Wilson snapped, too angry and freaked out to keep his voice down. "He's projecting. I'm – "

"Fine, yes. I know. House is a chronic pain patient; he actually has a halfway decent excuse to contemplate final solutions. Bad choice of words, I know. You're still Jewish, right?"

Wilson buried his face in his palms to hide his reaction, which he couldn't quantify even to himself. "House is a liar. He's lies about everything, Olivia!"

"I know. But right now, I'm sort of inclined to believe him. You're much more of a danger to yourself, James. I mean, honestly." She gave a tiny laugh, full of mirth so genuine that it could only be for show. "Making up therapy appointments? That's not what 'fine' people do when their lover's worried about their mental well-being."

Through gritted teeth, Wilson gnashed out, "We're not _lovers_. That's the stupidest word – I don't have to listen to you." He turned toward Olivia, intending to shove her off the bench, but he couldn't quite bring himself to touch her. "Move!"

"Yeah, it is pretty lame," Olivia agreed. "People are staring, you know. You should chill out."

Wilson flared his nostrils, so close to seething that he nearly saw red. He stuffed as much derision into his tone as he could, and then started, "Doctor Turner – "

"I spoke to Doctor Cuddy already. You're on medical leave until I say otherwise, with a tentative diagnosis of PTSD prompting a major depressive episode." Finally, Olivia dropped some of her act and faced him. "James, you need help. You're going to come in for daily sessions until I'm satisfied that this crisis, or whatever it is, has passed. Consider it a courtesy – I could have just had you committed."

Wilson gaped at her as every ounce of anger fled. "What?"

"You will take the medication I've prescribed, and since Doctor House has indicated that you're not compliant at the moment, you will submit yourself for weekly blood tests to confirm that you are, indeed, following doctor's orders. Cuddy already signed off on it, James. Deal with it."

"But…he can't do that. House can't just _say_ things to people – "

Olivia shrugged and something hard infiltrated her posture as she stood. "You should be flattered that he would go to such trouble for you, since it appears he's the only one." Sympathy crept across her face and she reached down to touch the tip of Wilson's shoulder with two fingers. "Noon tomorrow. Be in my office or I'll send the boys in the white coats to drag you in." She frowned. "I'm sorry, James. It's for your own good."

Wilson watched her stride away, stunned, and then his eyes flickered down to the bottles of medication that she had left behind: low dose Ativan and a higher dose of his regular anti-depressant. When his gaze wandered away to stare blankly across the room at nothing, he caught site of House near the cafeteria doors. Their eyes met for a moment and then House's dropped. Wilson watched him walk away too. It hurt.

* * *

Wilson didn't see House after he left the cafeteria, not even once, not even when Wilson stalked the hallways of PPTH searching for him until after visiting hours. Was this how House had felt after the deep brain stimulation, lying in a hospital bed and watching Wilson walk away? Maybe the emotions were different and the roles reversed, but the ache of sitting there frozen while the one most precious person turns their back on you…_that_ feeling could not be put into words.

Wilson didn't dare go home that night; he couldn't bear the thought of House turning him out. So he went back to his own apartment instead, which he had once again started to think of as _Amber_'s apartment. Not Wilson's; he felt like a stranger there. Blythe had left only a wash basket of freshly laundered bedding to evidence her stay, and Wilson let it sit where she had left it near the linen closet. He contemplated his telephone for a while, not really expecting House to call; the silent handset did not contradict him.

The knock on his door came as a surprise, though when he opened it, he could feel his entire being melt down in disappointment. The poor delivery kid on his stoop fidgeted at the rapid decline of Wilson's expression, but he held up a carryout bag for Wilson to take. Bewildered, Wilson accepted it, fumbling in his back pocket for his wallet, but the young man retreated before he could pull it out. It was only after Wilson ripped the receipt from the stapled top of the brown paper bag that he understood: House had sent him food. And not just that, but he had used his own credit card. A quick look revealed Wilson's favorite dishes from a Vietnamese place that House couldn't stand.

As soon as Wilson realized this, he pushed the entire bag into the corner of his kitchen counter and left it there untouched. He did the same with the pizza that showed up Saturday afternoon – white garlic sauce, tomato, onion and basil with fresh mozzarella – and the chicken sandwich that arrived Sunday from a bar that he and House frequented. It didn't occur to him that House was sending him peace offerings, or that Wilson himself was too numb to unravel the meaning of it. He didn't even know if he was angry with House for siccing PPTH on him, or just indifferent. He opted for indifferent because it was easier to not care about which was true.

He showed up for his mandatory therapy on Monday and sat opposite Olivia with his arms crossed, just as silent as he had been on Saturday and Sunday when she made a special weekend trip to her office just to see him. Eventually, when her exasperation finally peeked through that damnable House-ish exterior of hers, he smiled a little. Then he checked the clock and left without a word. House sent him Italian and a rented movie that night; Wilson set them both on his coffee table, ate a box full of Saltines, and went to bed. The loneliness finally hit him that night when he woke up in a cold bed, and he ended up sleeping on the couch.

Tuesday was when he realized he was not mad; on the contrary, he knew he had needed someone to force him into taking care of himself. Maybe it was just the extra meds talking, but he was sort of glad House had done it this way; he was no better at accepting help than House was. He wished House were here to see it, though; maybe House thought Wilson was mad at him, and he was staying away to avoid a fight. Or perhaps he just thought it was over, that pushing Wilson into mandatory therapy had pushed him out of House's life for good. House would probably appreciate the depressing irony of that: do what's best for Wilson and lose him; give a damn, no strings attached, and lose him; make Wilson happy again, and lose him…

Wilson's cheer died at that point, between one thought and the next, because he realized that this must be exactly what House thought, and it wasn't funny. He stared at the phone until he had to go to his therapy appointment, too afraid to pick it up. If House thought they might be through, a conversation between them now would merely ensure that House tore at every one of Wilson's open sores, and after that, they _would_ be through. Wilson took refuge in the ambiguity of silence, and left the phone where it sat. He spoke to Olivia, though; it seemed to relieve her, finally hearing his voice in her office.

No food arrived that night when Wilson got home, though he kept checking the street for signs of a delivery boy. Once it became clear that House had given up on the food offerings, Wilson grabbed his keys and drove to the cell phone store. Yes, he needed to replace his smashed cell phone, but he only did it now, at nine o'clock at night, because the silence of Amber's apartment had reached critical mass. He couldn't stay there any longer. Some snot-nosed kid tried to sell him an iPhone, then a crackberry, and finally some space age PDA. Wilson picked a new generation of his old phone off the wall, paid over the din of the sales kid's incessant spiel about accessories, and then programmed House's number into the speed dial. As he left the store, Wilson pressed send. When it rang through to voicemail, and House's recording told anyone except James Evan Wilson to leave a message, he hung up and found a bar.

On Wednesday morning, Wilson woke up in a bed that reeked of girl, next to a smallish, lithe body that also smelled like girl. He was too busy freaking out to find his left sock, so he left the right sock behind as well and dashed out the door before the girl woke up.

* * *

There was not enough Excedrin in the world to dull the head-splitting hangover pounding behind Wilson's eyes. He had no idea how he had ended up in that girl's bed; he only prayed he hadn't done anything with her. The amount of alcohol saturating his blood should have prevented any sex from taking place, considering his issue with drunkenness and impotency, but there was no way to know for sure. He couldn't remember anything beyond his fifth shot of House's favorite brand of scotch, which Wilson didn't even like.

Just to keep himself from going insane with boredom while staring at the inside of Amber's apartment for hours on end, Wilson had convinced Olivia to approve a part time return to work, administrative duties only. He couldn't meet with patients or treat anyone, but he could keep his inbox cleaned out and consult with other doctors. Of course, that ended up being a crappy idea because all the consults were pity consults from doctors who were trying too hard to give him sympathetic smiles while indulging their curiosity over James Wilson having some sort of breakdown. Stupid rubber-neckers.

About midmorning, Wilson caught site of House across the balcony pointedly _not_ rubber-necking while he absently tossed his yo-yo around. Wilson watched him from his office doorway for a few minutes but House didn't glance over. In fact, it didn't seem that he noticed Wilson there at all, and not just because he was ignoring Wilson. Foreman came out and passed a file to House, then stared over House's shoulder while carrying on some sort of impromptu differential. House merely stood there, oblivious to Wilson's eyes on his back, and then preceded Foreman back inside. Wilson exchanged a downcast gaze with Foreman and then retreated to the dim recesses of his office.

It took a while for Wilson to realize that he didn't even _want_ to do anything about the mess he had made of his relationship with House, and that it was making him panic. The meds Olivia had put him on tended to dull his emotions too much. Perhaps that was a good thing considering his recent behavior, but his muddled brain couldn't function properly like this. He wondered how House felt about the situation, considering the cessation of food delivery and the blatant lack of phone calls and stalking that usually characterized House's attempts to show concern or affection. Wilson found it entirely plausible that House had simply given up on him. It didn't seem likely, but their relations had been so strained lately that Wilson couldn't shake the fear engendered by that thought.

Noon rolled around and Wilson packed up the files he wanted to take home with him so that he could leave right after his therapy session. He didn't have to pass the Diagnostics Department to get at the main bank of elevators, but he wandered that way anyway. This time, when Wilson paused to stare, House noticed him. Neither of them moved, but Wilson saw a tiny flare of something hopeful in House's eyes before House could catch and bury it. The sullenness returned, House's signature brood, and still Wilson gazed through the glass, watching House start to fidget under the unwavering gaze until his temper finally unraveled. House couldn't abide that sort of thing – silent, penetrating looks – proof that Wilson sees right through him to something that House didn't want revealed. In a fluster of abrupt movements, House pulled himself to his feet, limped up to the closed door of his office, and dragged the blinds shut over Wilson's face.

With a sigh, Wilson turned away. He should have just gone in there and said something; taunting House like that never ended well. If House thought he was being patronized or pitied or some other inadvisable word, he pushed just to reclaim his invulnerability. It didn't help that Wilson saw so much of him to begin with, the substance beneath the surface snark; Wilson would be running scared too, if that were him sitting exposed like that. God, Wilson was an idiot. And a coward, he added to himself. All he had to do was walk in and say _hey_, and House would forget the awkward week of silence. But Wilson couldn't do it. Forget, that is. So he went to get his blood drawn for his med check instead.

* * *

"You cheated on him?"

"I don't know!" Wilson moaned. He let his forehead thwack Olivia's desk and shook it there. "I was drunk – _really _drunk. It shouldn't have worked."

Olivia must have smirked; it came through in her voice. "It?"

Wilson shot her a death glare of epic proportions. In a perfectly level, enunciated monotone, Wilson replied, "My penis." Then he balked. "Why the hell are you laughing? I just cheated on my – " He choked over saying something as ludicrous as 'boyfriend' and settled on, "House – I cheated on House!"

"Obviously." Olivia tapped a pen on her desk blotter, her other hand propping her chin up. "Why did you do it?"

Wilson's glare turned into a scowl, and then he wilted back in his chair. "I already told you: I don't remember."

"James, it's a thought experiment." Olivia rested her elbows on the edge of her desk, chin propped on folded hands. "You're supposed to speculate on the likely reasons that may have driven you – "

"I cope with depression by dropping my pants."

Olivia's mouth froze halfway through another word, and then she clacked her teeth as she shut it. "Interesting."

Wilson snorted and rolled his eyes as much in irritation as in self-loathing. "How so?"

"That sounds like a line," Olivia replied. "You know – delivered with the perfect amount of honest sarcasm. Is that something House told you?"

"Why?" Wilson demanded, straightening. "Are you gonna tell me all about how I shouldn't care what other people say about me? Just be myself, walk tall, proud to be James Wilson the serial womanizer, man-tramp extraordinaire?"

Olivia frowned. "Actually, I was going to speculate that the remark stuck with you because on some level, you believe it's true. But your interpretation works too."

Wilson blinked a few times, then pursed his lips as he threw his gaze somewhere else.

"James – "

"Do you even understand what I've just done?" Wilson fixed his eyes on Olivia, hoping to force her to avert her gaze since up until now, she'd always had some smug sort of upper hand when it came to him. "House has been terrified for months that I would cheat on him – he thinks it's inevitable, and not just because I can't keep it in my pants. There's a part of him that thinks I'd be justified in doing it, because he isn't good enough for me. And he ties that to sex – do you know, he actually admitted that he thinks he should fake it for me just so I don't find my jollies in some bar tramp's skirt? It's like he only has himself to blame if I do – like my infidelity is his fault!"

"I see. And this is relevant why?"

Wilson glared at her for being obtuse enough to think that he couldn't see what she was doing by asking that. Arrogant, psycho-babbling woman. He snapped, "This is what I do to wives and girlfriends – I smother them with everything they might possibly want. Then eventually, I need something back but they don't know how to give it to me because I never let them see my needs before." He realized at that point that he was sort of elaborating on something Amber had once told him, but he didn't pause. "Then I get resentful over the lack of reciprocity and I start to imagine that they're just wallowing in a sense of entitlement where I'm concerned. Then I get pissed and lonely and desperate for something I can't get from them, and I traipse off to get it someplace else."

Olivia's expression didn't change in the slightest. "And you're upset because you've actualized House's fears? Because he's failed to provide you with something in return?"

"No, I'm upset because _I wasn't lacking anything_!" Wilson fumed after he said it and then slid back in his chair. After gulping in a breath and swallowing it, Wilson went on in a more controlled tone. "House _does_ reciprocate in his own screwed up way – I don't feel like I'm missing anything important with him. It could be better, yes, and I'd like more from him, but it isn't…it's not that I _need _more." He sighed and cast his eyes to the ceiling. "I didn't want to cheat – I didn't need anything he wasn't at least trying to give me."

"That's quite a confession," Olivia offered. "However, I must point out that all through that little tirade, you never actually said that you _don't_ resent House. You merely said – quite forcefully – that you have no grounds for resentment." She paused for effect, as if this were a theater rather than a doctor's office. "Do you resent him?"

Wilson scowled at the formulaic psycho-speak. "I thought you were supposed to be useful."

A smile swept Olivia's mouth up at the edges. "You're actually furious with yourself over this. Not ashamed, as I imagine you were over the other affairs, but uber-pissed. This was an honest-to-god mistake."

"I don't want to fuck this up," Wilson told her, as he did several times each session.

"Yeah, I know." Olivia nodded once, then sobered. "How do you plan on handling this?"

Wilson snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, but he didn't want to appear as defensive as he felt, so he uncrossed them a moment later. With a sigh, he replied, "I'm afraid it might be too late to handle it. I cheated; I broke my promise. It's over."

"You don't think House will forgive you?"

Wilson scoffed. "Of course he'll forgive me – he needs me too much to drop me on principle."

"So…" Olivia made a thinking face at a potted plant beside her desk. "What you're pissed over is that by allowing him to forgive you, you're taking shameless advantage of his dependence on you, thereby proving that you think little of him – something he'll pick up on. It's all about that self-worth thing you were so ticked over the first time you came twittering in here."

Wilson scowled at nothing but nodded. "Sort of. He already has trust issues – promises, apologies…they're just opportunities for lies. I swore that it would be different with him – that I had no reason to cheat on him, that I _wouldn't_ cheat on him."

"Yeah, but I assume you made that promise to all your serious girlfriends too."

Wilson glared at her.

"And, I assume House _knows _that you made that promise to – "

"Will you make your damn point already?"

Nonplussed, Olivia stated, "This upsets you because when you promised this time, it actually _was_ different. You knew that you would only have one chance with House, and the fact that he gave you even that – it proved how much trust he had in you – how much he _wanted_ to believe you. By cheating on him, you've not only betrayed his trust, but you've implied that he isn't worth the trouble of keeping your promises."

Wilson blinked. "I liked it better when you minced words and spouted platitudes."

Olivia smiled, though the expression failed to reach her eyes. "James, you don't have the slightest idea what you've gotten yourself into."

"Oh, please." Wilson rolled his eyes. "I've known House for fifteen years; I think I can guess how he'll take this." A long stretch of silence permeated the room. When Wilson glanced up, curious to know why they'd broken off, he found Olivia studying him with a troubled expression. "What?"

Olivia sighed and looked off to one side. "Nothing. The hour's up."

Wilson watched her for another few heartbeats but Olivia showed no inclination to explain her strange mood. With an abbreviated farewell, Wilson left to go back to Amber's apartment, wishing he were going home instead.

* * *

A hesitant rap on his door nearly startled Wilson out of his skin. He had been staring at his hands, the television a low drone in the background, trying to recall the previous night and wondering if it mattered either way. He had cheated on House, which meant that this relationship was no different after all. Wilson had been kidding himself, and worse, stringing House along for the ride. Prophetic words from Cuddy's office came back to haunt him now. When Wilson finally ruined this, who would pick up after him? Who would put House back together again?

At a second knock, Wilson craned his neck to see past his shoulder, as if he had x-ray vision. He entertained the hope of opening the door to a delivery boy with House-emblazoned takeout, but banished the thought as soon as it had come. He was morose enough already; he didn't need the let down. The knocks sounded again as Wilson lugged himself up from the couch and padded quietly across the room, watching his feet as if expressions of shame made a difference when no one could see them.

When Wilson opened his door, Foreman arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow, taking in Wilson's appearance at a glance. "Um."

Wilson merely blinked at him, too tired to do much else. "What are you doing here?"

"I…" Foreman stared a bit longer. "…_was_ planning on telling you to stop being a dick, but now, maybe not so much."

"Oh." Wilson glanced down for a second, then managed to raise his eyes to Foreman's neckline. "Did House send you?"

"Actually, no," Foreman replied. "He told us not to bother you." He glanced over Wilson's shabby frame again. "Now I know why."

Well, that apathetic sort of candor was typical of Foreman. It was typical of House too, though Wilson chose not to linger on that thought.

Foreman regarded him expectantly, then leaned forward, his head angled to one side. "Can I come in?"

Wilson shrugged and wandered away from the open door.

Foreman took the dubious invitation to enter as Wilson shuffled back to the couch with one hand glued motionless to the back of his neck, dragging his head down. Forman gave what sounded like an appreciative whistle, but it was actually sarcasm in disguise. "Okay. I know this isn't exactly the polite thing to say when visiting somebody's crash-pad, but this place is a mess."

Wilson huffed out an amused breath. "Yeah, it is." He slumped down onto the couch, where the cushions now conformed permanently to the shape of his ass. "I think there are beers in the fridge. I'm supposed to be compliant, so…can't have them. Help yourself."

Foreman hesitated while Wilson absently hopped channels, and then stated, "I'm gonna make you a cup of tea."

"Don't bother; I have coffee." Wilson gestured toward the end table.

Foreman gave a humorless laugh. "You don't need any more coffee, from the looks of things."

"Probably true." Half empty mugs of tepid brown liquid littered the room. Wilson had only stopped pouring himself fresh cups because he ran out of mugs. He made a half-assed mental note to run a load through the dishwasher, and then let it slip his mind. Almost afraid to know, Wilson asked, "How is he?" No answer came, so he twisted on the couch to eye Foreman. "That's why you came here, isn't it?"

Foreman made a show of not fidgeting, successful aside from a shifted foot and some restless fingers. "Yeah. But I didn't think you'd be this bad off."

"I'm not bad off," Wilson countered. "Is he okay?"

Foreman sighed, then smiled with no trace of mirth. "No."

Wilson waited for more, partly ecstatic at the possibility that House was miserable on account of not speaking to him, and also more worried than he had been since the food stopped arriving.

Foreman made a face and then abruptly pointed at the kitchen. "I'm gonna get a beer after all."

"Okay." Wilson settled back, facing the television again, and cocked his head at Space Ghost. He and House had once sat watching this on mute in the middle of the night, extremely drunk, doing their own voice overlays.

By the time Foreman returned from the kitchen, Wilson had switched off the TV and Foreman had drained half the bottle in his hand. Apparently fortified with suds of courage, Foreman blurted out, "Chase caught him self-medicating yesterday – morphine – and now he won't let us in his apartment."

Wilson raised his eyes, startled. "Why?"

Foreman shrugged. "He's House. He's being difficult."

Wilson frowned at him but let the comment pass. "I meant, why the morphine? He's on a medication schedule; he had Fentanyl for the breakthrough pain."

"Yeah." Foreman sucked in a preparatory breath, lifted his eyebrows, and reported, "He's not on Ngyen's plan anymore."

Wilson blinked, then shook his head. "But… I thought he was giving it another month."

"You're no longer there to notice when he slips up. Why should he bother doing something to impress you when you're never coming back?"

"I never said I wasn't coming back!"

"You didn't say _anything_. That's his problem." Foreman sighed and took a seat in an armchair. He appeared uncomfortable, mediating two grown, older men. Especially men he worked for, neither of whom he probably considered his friend. "He's not sleeping, I know that much, and I don't think he eats unless one of us sticks food under his nose. But he's always been like that, so…" Foreman fiddled with his beer bottle before taking another sip just to have something less awkward to do. After he swallowed, he picked at the label and spoke to the neck of the bottle, preoccupied with peeling the sticky paper off in one smooth go. "When he came back to work Monday, he kept going into your office to see if you were there. He said you were holding onto his pills."

Wilson started to shake his head, and then remembered taking them from House on Friday morning. "Shit," he muttered. "I forgot to give them back."

"Yeah, I know." Foreman scowled at the mangled beer label and looked up. "House wouldn't take a new oxy script from any of us. We had to get a replacement from Ngyen and then tell him you dropped it off for him. Marco even flubbed the dates on the label." After a pause, Foreman took a deep breath and said, "Look. House is an ass." He shrugged that off, as this opinion was expected from him. "But even I don't like seeing him like this; it's pathetic. I know you're messed up right now, but you gotta go over there and snap him out of it. Chase thinks he might do something drastic otherwise."

Wilson was shaking his head even before he knew what he intended to do. "We'll only fight, and it'll be worse. He probably thinks I'm pissed at him getting me stuck on psych leave, because _he_ would have been pissed if I'd done it to him. I – "

"He thinks you hate him," Foreman cut in, his voice much softer all of a sudden. "Not because he attacked you via psychiatrist, but because he can't help you through this – he doesn't know how. He told Chase that he wishes Lyamone had shot you because at least if you were dead, you couldn't be so disappointed."

Wilson looked up, his expression open even from the inside. Even though House had probably only said that to illustrate a point, it still stung. His voice going weak, Wilson protested, "That's not how I feel. I don't hate him, and I'm _not_ disappointed."

Foreman nodded, his eyebrows raised. "Okay, then go over there and tell him that." When Wilson stuttered over some nonsensical protest, Foreman demanded, "Why don't you want to see him?"

Wilson shook his for what felt like the umpteenth time, but he had no good answer. Or at least, not one he would share with Foreman. "I can't…" He bowed his head, defeated and ashamed of himself for it. "I just can't." He allowed one hand to run a familiar path around to tug at the back of his neck.

"Look." Foreman sighed and set his beer down on the coffee table. "I don't know what's going on. I don't _want_ to know. But you're being an idiot. You're both miserable, but you're more miserable alone. I remember what House was like after Amber died, when you disappeared. He wasn't just cranky or lonely, Wilson – he was terrified. It's the same thing now; he thinks he drove you away by swallowing his damn pride long enough to help you."

"Help me?" Wilson glanced up just long enough to verify Foreman's sincerity, then let his eyes skitter away again. "This is not even remotely the same as when Amber died."

Foreman made an exasperated sound and mumbled to himself, "It's like talking to a four year old." For Wilson's ears, he added, "It's the _exact_ same thing. He didn't want to do the deep brain stimulation, but he did it anyway because _you_ needed to know. And you didn't even visit him for the two weeks he spent in the hospital afterwards; you acted like he'd failed to properly risk his life for you. Now, he tries to make sure you don't self destruct and it's the same thing: you don't want to have anything to do with him." Foreman shook his head with a wry snort. "You know, I never saw it before, but you're worse than him. You both fight tooth and nail to never depend on anyone, and yet House at least acknowledges it when somebody bails him out of trouble. You're incapable of accepting the fact that you need people – you're in so much denial of it that you have to run off and hide whenever somebody does something selfless for you."

Wilson stared at the rug under his toes. It really was an ugly thing, faux oriental. Why the hell did Amber buy it? It didn't match a single piece of furniture in the entire apartment. Without raising either his eyes or his voice, Wilson mumbled, "I cheated on him. It's just like all the others – he wasn't enough, except this time, I don't know why."

Foreman didn't say anything aside from some whispered curse.

"I can't let him know that," Wilson went on, beyond really caring at this point that he hardly knew Foreman outside of work. "It wasn't anything he did, but he'll think it is. I can't let him blame himself for it – it was an accident for once."

Foreman sucked in a deep breath, and then sighed, "You are _such_ an idiot."

Wilson looked up, his brow creased. Yeah, he was an idiot, but Foreman's tone implied some other form of idiocy than that which Wilson applied to himself.

"First off, you're getting an STD panel tomorrow morning." Foreman made a disgusted face and shook his head over his clasped hands. "Second, it's completely different. Don't be a moron."

"You've worked with House for too long," Wilson remarked, sarcasm on autopilot just because it was a natural tone to take when he was at a loss. "Your vocabulary has shrunk to include only two terms of derision, and you automatically assume I had _un_safe sex."

"I could call you something more creative," Foreman offered, "but you're doing my boss. It wouldn't be a good career move."

Wilson snorted and felt his lips curl into an almost-smile.

"And you're not denying the part about STD's."

"No." Wilson's nervous gaze twittered at the edge of an empty coffee mug. "I don't exactly remember, so…"

"That's brilliant." In a gentler voice, Foreman said, "You screwed up – literally. Who hasn't? If it was really a mistake, if you have no intention of doing it again, then there's no reason to tell him."

"Really." Wilson peered at Foreman from under lowered brows. "You're advocating lying as a basis for a lasting relationship."

Foreman gave him a look. "Doesn't House always make fun of you for telling your wives about the affairs?"

Wilson waited a breath, then replied, "Yes."

"And you told them, why?"

Wilson shrugged.

Intent and condescending – though the latter was probably unintentional – Foreman suggested, "Could it be because you wanted out of the marriage? Maybe they just needed a push, so you gave them one?"

Wilson frowned. "Isn't that a little facile?"

"Not if it's true on some level."

Wilson averted his gaze in favor of glowering at the floor.

"When you told them about the affairs, did you still love them?"

Surprised, Wilson looked up. "Not really, I guess. Not anymore."

Foreman smiled; genuine kindness appeared eerie on his face. "Then unless you _want_ to get rid of House, he doesn't need to know."

Wilson regarded him dispassionately. "I can't keep secrets from him."

"Dude. Seriously? People lie all the time; even House knows that. Hell, House _lives _by that."

"No, I mean I literally _can't_ keep secrets from him," Wilson said. "He knows – he can smell deception. All I have to do is blink off rhythm and he's onto me."

Foreman gave him a tolerant look which ended in a mirthless smile. "Go talk to him."

And with that, Foreman left.

--TBC


	25. Chapter 25

**Ok, geez - so I just realized it's been nearly a month since updated this here on , and now I feel like a cheese head for making you all wait. (Please don't hate me - it was the coffee. It just wasn't there for me when I needed it. *sniff* *tear*.) But seriously - thanks for all the site hits, and the comments - you all rock!**

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Wilson's resolve lasted until about eleven that night, when he discovered himself in his bathroom with a beard he hadn't shaved, or even looked at, since the morning Olivia put him on psych leave. He blinked at his reflection in the mirror, slightly horrified to know that he had been walking around the hospital like that. He did not – emphatically, categorically _not_ – look good with facial hair. In fact, he looked like a cross between a hobo and a teenager trying desperately to appear older than he actually was. These unflattering mental images were accentuated by his mussed hair, which needed to be trimmed before it obscured his eyes, and the rumpled olive green polo shirt he was wearing.

After he shaved, Wilson saw himself as House saw him: the impossibly smooth-cheeked, chocolate-eyed, lonesome boy wonder oncologist – Saint James with the perpetual sad tint to his features even when the smile he forced appeared convincing. House would see through that, he thought. In fact, House _had_ seen through that; that was why Olivia had accosted him. House had been worried, and House had cared enough to want to help. But House didn't know how to give Wilson what he needed, so he sought out someone who did and pointed her at him. Then as thanks, Wilson had disappeared on him. Being mad at House for what he'd done, that was one thing. Abandoning him without a word of explanation… Wilson didn't even have the gallon of milk to show for that.

Even though House wouldn't understand, Wilson stopped at an all-night convenient store for a gallon of milk on his way to 221B. He could use it in pancake batter or something.

It didn't seem appropriate to use his key even though House had repeatedly referred to his apartment as Wilson's home too, probably without realizing he was doing it. The image of House coldly pulling the blinds in his office with Wilson standing right there outside the glass floated through Wilson's mind as he knocked. It was nearly midnight, but light shone under the apartment door. If House were already asleep, it was in a lump on the couch that he should get up from anyway to spare his leg the contortion.

Wilson waited a minute and then rapped his knuckles harder against the green paint. Nothing. He sighed and pounded with the edge of his fist. House was either ignoring the world altogether, or he recognized the way Wilson knocked; either was possible.

"House?" Wilson made a pitiful face at the door, and then peered expectantly at the peephole before casting a glance at the floor. "Come on," he called. "I know you can hear me." He leaned into the door to listen closer, then frowned. Maybe House really couldn't hear him. Maybe he had his iPod on or something. Wilson fiddled at the door for another few seconds and then gave an exasperated sigh as he dug his keys out. He opened the door slowly just in case House was absorbed in some song; Wilson didn't want to startle him.

His caution proved unnecessary; the living room was empty. Wilson stuck his head as far into the room as he could, just to make sure, and then shuffled inside. "House? Are you home?" A quick glance revealed that the place was spotless. _Truly_ spotless, like the way Wilson might leave it after a frantic day-long cleaning session.

That brought another pensive frown to Wilson's face and he inspected the rest of the apartment to find everything in a similar state. No socks or sneakers littered the floor, the dishes were all washed and put away, countertops and sinks in both the kitchen and the bathroom were scrubbed clean, as was the shower. Corners had been swept out, shelves dusted, books and magazines straightened and relegated to their proper places, piano music stashed in the bench where it belonged. It was actually rather disturbing; House's apartment was never this well put together, like something out of a Good Housekeeping magazine. Not even his office saw this level of neatness. Hell, not even _Wilson_'s office saw this level of neatness.

Wilson approached the closed bedroom door last, expecting to find House asleep or passed out. When he cracked the door open, he found that room empty as well, but at least it hadn't achieved a creepy state of pristine, un-lived-in sterility like the rest of the apartment. That didn't exactly alleviate Wilson's anxiety. He pushed the door all the way open and stared at the chaos inside. It looked like House had started to clear Wilson's things out, and then stopped mid-project. Half the closet was empty and the bottom bureau drawer stood open and bare. Tailored suit pants and blazers littered the bed, most of them neatly folded, some of them bagged.

Wilson shook his head, bewildered. He had figured out by now that House thought they were through, that Wilson didn't have any fondness left for him. But if House were trying to rid himself of the reminder of Wilson, why fold everything so carefully? Why pack it away in a manner sure to minimize wrinkling? House's style dictated that he crumple everything, perhaps step on it or run it over with his motorcycle, and then dump it in a stinking pile on the sidewalk in front of Wilson's apartment. Or maybe soak it all in skunk juice and Fed-ex it to him. Something uncivilized. There was no call for such niceness.

With a last puzzled glance at the bedroom, Wilson backed out, pulling the door shut behind him. He made a trip back to the kitchen to put the milk that he was still carrying in the fridge, and then he stood on the living room threshold, one hand on his hip and the other curled around the back of his neck. It was obvious, at least to him, that House had not been home for several days. Wilson could probably confirm that by checking the mailbox for a buildup, but he really didn't need to. He supposed that House might have a suitably consuming case, but rumors always got around when those sorts of patients hit the diagnostics department; people liked to speculate on House's motives, and on top of that, no one could resist a good mystery. Especially intrepid or arrogant students often tried their hands at out-diagnosing him, too; sort of a medical version of Win Ben Stein's Money, or something.

Wilson had been out of the loop lately, but not _that_ out of the loop. He would have heard about any case interesting enough to keep House in his office for a week straight. He supposed that House may have gone to a hotel, but that was Wilson's thing. Besides, this was House's apartment; he wouldn't abandon it just because Wilson used to all but live here. And House had been at PPTH all week, so Wilson knew that he hadn't skipped town for a few days. It didn't make sense, this odd scene.

Before leaving, Wilson scrawled out a note on the back of a Wal-Mart receipt and left it on the kitchen island where he hoped House would see it, pinned under an unopened bottle of Marsala that Wilson had bought ages ago for cooking purposes. Then he made sure that nothing else had been disturbed by his passage and locked the apartment on his way out.

He was wide awake now and in no mood to putter around with Amber's things, so Wilson drove at random for a while, thinking about nothing aside from how to mend things with House. He had been drifting in a fog ever since the shooting, his brain scrambled with indefinite concerns, haunted by memories of red handprints and dripping sheets. He knew better than to think that House was okay, that he could cope with no lasting effects. He also knew that House's method of dealing involved alcohol, pills, slovenly wallowing on his couch, and Wilson. Wilson's absence should have simply led to more of the other coping mechanisms. This was just bizarre.

At some point, Wilson realized that he was headed toward PPTH. Paperwork couldn't hurt, even if it was midnight, so he went ahead and pulled into the employee parking lot when he got there. House's parking space was empty, but that didn't mean he wasn't there; he often parked in the garage in inclement weather, and it looked about ready to rain. Still, Wilson didn't expect to find him in his office when he stepped off the elevator.

Sure enough, the diagnostics offices were dark, and Wilson almost went to his own office without looking any closer. Something stopped him, though, and he sidled closer to the conference room window before he registered what it was that gave him pause. Through the half-closed blinds, Wilson could make out someone slumped over the table, head pillowed on arms in the midst of books and test results, files, takeout containers, MRI films and old coffee mugs. Wilson had to squint with his face mere millimeters from the glass to confirm that it was, indeed, House sleeping in a hard chair with his face turned into his elbow.

Wilson hesitated outside the door, unsure if a late-night argument was really a good idea right now, but he couldn't just walk on by. With a sigh, Wilson finger-combed his hair into some semblance of order, and then pushed the door open on silent hinges. House didn't stir when Wilson padded up beside him, so Wilson repositioned a chair and sat down. He just stared for a while, watching House's back rise and fall with his steady respirations, noting the way that his breaths stirred the fabric of his shirt sleeve. Even asleep, House looked worn. Dark smudges colored the bags under his eyes and his hair stuck up all over the place in a parody of his usual unkempt hairdo. Wilson reached out to smooth one particular tuft down over his ear and House snuffed without waking. Wilson's fingers trailed to House's shirt collar, where he stopped long enough to realize that it was one of _his_ dress shirts. House was wearing Wilson's shirt.

"God," Wilson muttered. He pulled his hand back and hung his head for a second, untrimmed fingernails stuttering against a file. Why did this have to be so hard? Him and House – it should have been natural. They'd been fake-flirting for years, learning to put up with each other, read each other, manage each other, be there… There was hardly any transition at all between friends and partners; it should have been easy to take this step, to be in a committed physical relationship, and yet it wasn't. Every road block set them back, they fought like cat and dog… Why couldn't Wilson make this work? He had fought to hold his marriages together, whatever his motives or feelings – why couldn't he manage to fight for this? Why not for House? Was it just too much? After all these years, was he simply out of impetus?

House started awake with a choked grunt and Wilson jumped in his seat. A few sleepy blinks led House's gaze to Wilson, and then he froze. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You weren't at your apartment." Wilson lowered his eyes and drew his hands back to clasp them between his knees. "We need to talk."

House gave a derisive snort and sat up, stretching to crack his back in the process. "There's nothing to talk about. Get lost."

"I'm sorry." Wilson chanced to look up, but House was guarded as a steel bastion, so he repeated, "I'm _sorry_."

"Whatever." House glanced off to one side and then pushed himself to his feet. "I'm busy." He made his way slowly to the coffee maker, using the chair to aid his gait instead of the cane hooked over the white board near Wilson's elbow.

"Not right now, you're not." Wilson stood too, but he stayed poised between chairs by the table.

"Seriously," House said. He twisted his upper body so that he could treat Wilson to the full effects of snark. "I have a case."

Wilson sighed and shoved one hand into his jeans pocket. The other itched to knead at his neck, but he forced it to remain hanging at his side. "I should have come home. House, I – "

"Dammit." House scowled at the sludge burned into the bottom of the coffee pot, and glanced over his shoulder at Wilson. "That goes for you too, you know."

Wilson pursed his lips as House limped past him to grab his cane. "House, just…please. Let me explain."

"Nothing to explain," House said, making his way to his office. "I get it. You can go now."

Wilson couldn't stop the anger engendered by that, and he shouted, "You don't get it! You never get it, you pompous ass!"

House paused to crane his neck and raise his eyebrows over his shoulder.

"Just sit down," Wilson snapped. He tried to sound pleading, but he was too upset.

House screwed his mouth up to one side and then let out a short bark of laughter before he continued out of the room.

Wilson fumed in place and then stalked after him, undaunted when House shoved through the balcony door. Wilson caught the door before it swung shut and nearly clipped House's ankle when he savagely shoved it open. "Why won't you listen to me for once?"

House rounded on him without warning. "Why should I? You left, Wilson. _You_ left! I didn't do anything – that was all you! It's not my fault you're a pussy who can't handle things getting a little out of his control."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed, mollified now that he could see a matching anger in House's countenance. He leaned back since House was in his face, and he didn't need them to be this close right now. "And I'm apologizing for it."

"Oh, well in that case, everything's fine again. Cheers." House shot him a murderous look and then turned his back on Wilson long enough to fumble in his pocket. Wilson expected a pill bottle to emerge, but House pulled a pack of cigarettes from his blazer instead.

"What the hell are you doing?" Wilson jabbed several fingers in the direction of the cigarette that House extracted.

House affected one of his mock innocent faces. "Crocheting a doily."

Wilson started to retort and then blew a breath out through his nose while House lit up, his lips pressed together to prevent a lecture on the evils of lung cancer. "You know you shouldn't do that, House. You have a clotting disorder."

"Oh no. Really?" House made a faux horrified face. "Gee, it's a good thing you're a doctor."

Wilson passed a hand over his eyes and then placed both hands on his hips. "This is serious."

House took a long drag and then puffed the smoke in Wilson's face before answering. "Yeah, it is," he drawled with a surprising lack of heat. "So damn serious that you tossed me a bottle of oxy and then didn't come home for a week." He paused. "Or is that another one of those things you think I _don't get_?"

Wilson softened his voice even more, as if he could douse the argument broiling beneath House's accusation. "I didn't leave you with a bottle of pills, House. I forgot I had them. Foreman and Chase had a new script phoned in."

House turned sideways, his smoke-ringed face in profile against the lights of the walkway four floors beneath them while he digested the realization that his underlings had tricked him. Wilson wondered what House felt at that – did he feel betrayed? Was it like when Wilson had dosed his coffee with antidepressants? Or was it just more of what he had come to expect from the people around him, another painstaking manipulation to be taken in stride?

Wilson sighed. "Look. This hasn't been easy for me."

"Yeah, because it was a cakewalk for me."

"Stop being you for a minute," Wilson snapped. "I'm trying to tell you I was an ass."

House bit back whatever snappy comeback he had thought up, and then growled around the cigarette.

Encouraged, Wilson took up a more reasonable stance, but he couldn't seem to spit out what he really wanted to say. Instead, he asked, "How have you been?"

House gave him an incredulous look and Wilson noticed that his lips were chapped. How many cigarettes had he smoked lately? Then House gave a shrug that consisted of some sort of jerky head and shoulder movement, and faced forward again. "Which one of the kiddies came crying to you? Was it Chase? He never could stand it when Mommy and Daddy fight."

Since denials would set off House's lie detector, Wilson replied, "It was Foreman. He told me I'm worse than you."

"You are." House inhaled more cigarette and in the silence, Wilson could hear the faint crackle of burning tobacco.

"I know." Wilson let his hands slide from his hips and into his pockets, and he turned to look out over the campus grounds, his shoulder perilously close to House's. Even more quietly than before, he repeated, "How have you been?"

"Just dandy." House slumped and leaned harder on his cane, with the unintentional side effect of bringing his shoulder into contact with Wilson's arm.

Wilson tried not to react to the touch because he couldn't be sure if House did it on purpose, and he didn't want to prompt a retreat. "They're worried about you."

"Big deal."

Wilson glanced over and his eyes fell on the cigarette held loosely between House's fingers. "Can you put that out?"

He anticipated a rude comment and more deliberate smoke-blowing, but House merely gazed down at the cigarette before stubbing it out on the balcony wall. Then he tossed the butt out into space and peered at the rooflines of the buildings across the way.

Wilson averted his eyes and picked at the wall in front of him. "I'm sorry I disappeared on you. I didn't mean to, I just… I thought that's what you wanted."

"Then you're an idiot."

Wilson nodded. "House – "

"I shouldn't have sent the psychiatrist after you."

Wilson looked at him and his head fell to one side. "Yes, you should have. I needed it."

House fidgeted for a second. "But you left."

Since House seemed to be fixated on that one point, Wilson decided to stick with it for now. "I shouldn't have. You didn't deserve that."

House seemed puzzled by that, and though he angled a bit toward Wilson, he didn't look at him. "It pissed you off."

"House, I was messed up. I didn't know what to do except get away."

House ignored him. "I expected you to be mad, I just figured you'd be mad at home."

So House still considered his apartment to be Wilson's home too. That was heartening, at least. In a rare moment of honesty, Wilson admitted, "I couldn't face you."

House finally looked at him, but whatever he meant to say died on his lips. His eyes flickered about Wilson's head and shoulders, seeing past him, and then House turned toward the balcony wall again.

"Not because of what you did," Wilson said. "It wasn't that."

"Then what?" House demanded.

Wilson started at the rough quality of House's voice. "I fucked up. Big time," Wilson said. "I let you down, I – I hit you, and I practically attacked you over some stupid letters."

House shook his head and nodded at the same time, a singularly bewildered gesture. "_You_ let _me_ down? _You_ disappointed _me_?" He tried to give an incredulous snort, but he didn't make it past flummoxed.

Wilson shrugged, at a loss. "Isn't that the point you were just trying to make?" He gestured between them.

House cast him a furtive glance. So yes, but…no. Not really.

"House…" Wilson shook his head. "What, you think I wouldn't realize that?"

House mumbled, "Didn't think you'd say it."

"Why wouldn't I say it?"

"You never have before." House's eyes darted toward him again, but didn't stay.

"I never realized I needed to before," Wilson replied. Then he pressed his lips together in an aborted frown. "I guess I needed an illusion too." He waited for House to sift through conversations and recall what he had said to Wilson that first time, on the couch. _I want the illusion. I don't have anything else left._

House's eyes sidled away toward Wilson's half of the balcony, and then he mumbled, "It's not an illusion."

"Part of it was," Wilson countered. "I needed to be the good guy. I always needed to be the – the giver and the provider…everything you accuse me of being."

"And now you don't anymore?"

The amount of venom in House's voice took Wilson aback, but he glossed over it. "I don't know. Do I? Is that what you want from me?"

House shifted, ill at ease, then sneered, "No," as if the word itself offended him.

Before House could draw any false conclusions, Wilson assured him, "The important parts were always real, House. What we are – it's not an illusion. It was just me…that part about me, what I was doing… That part…" Wilson sighed and smashed a palm over his face before bracing it back on the balcony wall. "I'm messing this up again. I don't know how to explain it."

"You needed your persona," House offered.

Wilson shrugged, then nodded. "Yeah. Basically, yeah. I needed to believe I was him."

House looked away, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I knew that already."

"I know." Wilson made a face at the stone beneath his hands. "I'm sorry he hurt you."

All the candor was making House restless, but he stilled himself beside Wilson and replied, "He didn't mean to."

"No," Wilson agreed. "I didn't." That didn't mean much, though; House said that about everyone who hurt him. Wilson took a breath and then turned to lean back against the balcony wall. He couldn't address that here; it was too large an issue. "So, I need to know: Is it over? Did I push it too far?"

House threw him a surprised look, and then covered it up with the sort of nonchalance that betrayed how hurt he really was. "You think it's that easy to get rid of me? Gee, it's like I never stalked you before."

Wilson smiled, but a pang twisted in his chest. The expression melted away, leaving only Wilson and his insecurity behind. "Did I?"

House shrugged, self conscious and uncomfortable over the fact. "Dunno. Didn't think you were coming back this time." He paused, then confessed, "When you called Tuesday night, you didn't leave a message. I called you back but you didn't answer, so I went over to your apartment and you weren't there. And then you wouldn't talk to me in my office, and I thought…" He lifted his shoulders again and fumbled his way back to lean on the divider between their balconies, relieving the strain on both his legs. "Thought that was it. I thought…I tried to do something right, and I fucked it up again, and now you hated me."

Even though Wilson appreciated the honesty of that response, it left a patch of ice coiled in his stomach. "I don't hate you." They had to be okay. House wasn't tossing him out on his ass, so that had to mean they would be okay.

"I've been thinking... I can't keep doing this with you," House said. He tried to look in some direction that would hide his face from Wilson, but the shadows were too evenly spaced. "I can't just…let you. Not anymore."

Wilson pushed off the wall and took a few steps toward him. He didn't want to crowd House, but in the confined space, he could do little else. "I don't want you to." He couldn't remember the last time House had spoken like this – had stated that he wouldn't let Wilson walk all over him. Yes, House often acted like King Shit, but he always backed down at some point; when it came to himself, he always gave in. Very few people pushed hard enough to get past the surface snark, but once they pierced the veneer, all resistant puttered out. "I don't want you to settle for me, and I don't want you to think that have to put up with crap just because it's coming from me. You deserve better than that."

House leaned farther back, manufacturing a buffer zone that didn't exist between them, and turned to stare into his conference room. The words were barely there, but Wilson heard him whisper, "So do you."

Maybe House meant that he deserved better than someone who would settle on him, or maybe he meant that Wilson deserved better than _him_. Whichever it was, Wilson shook his head. "I don't want better, House. I just want you."

House made a face at the glass and then tucked his head, his cane thumping against the ground near his foot. Under his breath, he muttered, "Sap," but he was clearly too uncomfortable to engage in normal banter.

Wilson reached out to brush a few fingers over House's cheek, and House flinched back. He immediately tucked his chin, embarrassed by his response, so Wilson touched again, his shoulder this time. He could feel House quell the instinct to move away again, so Wilson just gave a gentle squeeze and withdrew toward the door. "Come home with me?"

House glanced up, brows arched but his head still lowered. "Place is a mess."

"Only the bedroom," Wilson countered. "It doesn't matter."

"Oh." House scrunched his nose up to hide whatever real expression crossed his face. "You went in."

Instead of addressing that, Wilson commented, "I'm impressed. Did you call a service?"

"No." He moved his shoulders again, and Wilson realized that he was beyond restless at this point, trapped in a conversation by virtue of a stone wall and Wilson blocking the door. "You yelled at me."

Wilson narrowed his eyes as he interpreted that. Right…the food on the coffee table, and the fight just before Wilson left.

House glanced up to see if Wilson had followed his remark, and then he pulled another face. "I figured when you came back, maybe you wouldn't be so mad. Cuz you're always cleaning up after me."

Wilson wasn't entirely sure how to respond, so he settled on an awkward, "Thanks."

House nodded. "Sure, whatever." He paused to squirm some more, then added, "Don't think it's gonna happen often."

Wilson grinned. "I'm the girl in the relationship, remember? I'm supposed to do the domestic crap."

House's lips curled too, and he said, "That was so sexist. Fem-nazis are gonna come after you one of these days."

"That sounds sorta kinky." Wilson fought not to turn into the grinning sap that House had already accused him of being. He couldn't even place his level of relief on a scale.

House let the smile come out this time. "They can't have you." He hefted his cane. "I'll beat them off if I have to."

"My hero." Wilson faked a swoon and fell back against the door.

House grumbled something unintelligible and then snarked, "Quit being stupid."

Wilson straightened and held the door open. "You like it," he stated, then jerked his head toward the door. "Come on. I'm tired."

House thumped his cane a few more times, rapid rubber beats against concrete, and then he pushed himself off the wall. He stopped in front of Wilson, though, and backed down a little before he said, "And if…I mean it, if you ever hit me like that again – "

"I know," Wilson broke in. "I know. I can't even – "

"Just don't." House backed off even more, into his office. "I was…you… It scared me. It shouldn't have, but it did. I know you get…weird about things, and you throw things, but you never… I don't want to feel that way with you."

Wilson was nodding the whole time, shame burning his cheeks. "I know. I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry."

"It's a deal breaker," House insisted.

Wilson swallowed. "Okay. That's only fair."

House studied Wilson's shoes for a moment longer, grimaced at the night past Wilson's shoulder, and then pivoted on his good leg like the conversation had never happened. He hopped around his desk chair to fish his backpack out from under his desk and Wilson released the balcony door. The soft hiss of hydraulics exploded across the room and Wilson glanced back to make sure that the door didn't stick on its way shut.

"Wilson?"

Wilson jumped and spun to face House, who was waiting near the hallway door. "Right. Sorry. I just have to…" He made an awkward gesture at his coat, which he had left in the conference room, and House hobbled out into the hallway while Wilson went to retrieve it. They met up again at the elevator. "Um…House?"

House grunted at him to go on.

"I think… I mean, I'd like it if maybe… Don't bite my head off, okay?"

House turned his head like a lizard in the sun, the rest of his body frozen on a warm rock.

"I know it was a bad idea before," Wilson babbled. "The whole…Cuddy's thing with the couples counseling." He chewed his lip for a second, then blurted out, "Maybe you could come to a session with me." He held up a hand to ward off a surefire insult. "Just once. Just…if you want to. I just think maybe…I'd want you there…maybe."

House looked back at the elevator as it dinged and then preceded Wilson inside, silent as death. They had reached the ground floor and Wilson was beating his head against a metaphorical wall for asking when House finally groused, "Fine. But only once, and I'm not talking to her."

Wilson didn't immediately follow him out, he was so stunned. Then he smiled in relief and hurried after his gimp friend. "Thanks, House."

"Shut up," House snapped, but there was little true bite in it.

Wilson grinned at that too, or at least until House glared at him for it. Going home felt good; he'd been away too long.

* * *

It was easier for them both to take Wilson's car since House was too exhausted to drive and they were going to the same place anyway. About halfway there, Wilson started wondering whether going back to 221B was actually a good thing or not. They drove in silence that Wilson thought was comfortable until he noticed that House kept tossing him uncertain glances. Between flickers of eyes, House stared out the passenger side window and fiddled with his cane. At one point, he took a pill, but he tried to do it discretely, like he didn't want Wilson to notice.

"I _can_ see you, you know," Wilson offered.

House threw him another one of those glances, and then glowered at the door handle.

Wilson let his eyes drift in House's direction, but he kept the road in his periphery. Then he rolled his eyes. "House, come on. I'm not gonna say anything about the pills."

"Not right now, maybe," House muttered. Then just for the hell of it, he added, "You suck."

"And you're deflecting," Wilson countered. He made an effort to sound less confrontational. "What's bothering you?"

"Nothing."

Wilson threw him a sidelong glance.

House sighed. "I'm tired, okay? I haven't slept in a while and I'm cranky. Just stop with the care and consideration act. It's annoying."

Wilson frowned and concentrated on driving for about thirty seconds. Then he sighed. "Look; I already know you haven't been compliant this past week. Foreman told me."

A low grumble permeated the still interior of Wilson's car, and House puffed his cheeks around a mouthful of air before exhaling in an irritated rush. "Wilson, I haven't been compliant in like a month."

Wilson glanced at him, then had to concentrate on the road. "But I've seen you take your meds. I've _given_ them to you a few times when you've forgotten."

"Here and there, yeah, I take them," House snapped back. "To shut you up." He fiddled with his cane and kept on making faces at the window. Eventually, he got quieter and remarked, "They don't work. It's like before, right after my leg. Nothing works."

Wilson finished the unspoken thought. "Except Vicodin." Then he scowled at the windshield, unwilling to either stop the confrontation or look at House lest the man give him one of those baleful looks that always brought out the enabler in Wilson. "House, you're a doctor. How do you expect the new meds to work if you don't stick to the schedule?"

House inserted, "I _did_ stick to the schedule."

Without acknowledging the interruption, Wilson replied, "For one month. That's not indicative of anything, and you know it. You may as well just not take them at all."

"Even _you_ said they weren't working," House bit back. "You got all doe-eyed in the kitchen, remember?" He glared daggers out the window, and under his breath, he added, "Fucking hypocrite."

Wilson sucked in a breath, then let it whistle out between his teeth before he said something he might regret. A moment later, he acknowledged, "Okay, you're right. But you said you'd try something other than Vicodin, and then you said you'd give this another month – "

"Will you stop harping on me about the damn pills!" House's face snapped toward Wilson and then he drew back against the passenger side door, defensive. "I'm not overdosing. I know I have a problem, and I'm dealing with it. It's under control. I'm not hurting anyone, Wilson."

Before he could consider it, Wilson retorted, "Except yourself. And me, because I have to watch you slowly kill yourself via liver failure."

"Stop! I'm fine. You don't need to worry about it anymore. I can handle it."

Wilson swallowed hard and shut up. He really didn't want to start another fight so soon after somehow wheedling his way back into House's good graces less than half an hour ago. But House's words struck him. It was like House was trying too hard to get Wilson to lay off, even considering his usual attitude about any attempt that Wilson made to address his pill use. It almost seemed like House thought he shouldn't be burdening Wilson with his problems, as if he shouldn't need help. House had never been easy to deal with, and Wilson had a bad habit of focusing on House, to his own detriment. Maybe House was trying to put an end to his dependency on Wilson in his own screwed up fashion. He didn't blame himself for Wilson's breakdown, did he? He couldn't possibly think that Wilson shouldn't have to cope with his addiction and the stress of managing the chronic pain.

Wilson glanced aside as they approached a red light, and found House brooding at his window again, one hand on the head of his cane, the other on his bad thigh, absently working at it through his jeans. House had pressed his forehead against the glass and Wilson could see the reflection of his eyes as they roamed aimlessly over the sidewalk. The light was still red, so once Wilson came to a full stop, he reached past the center console and grasped House's forearm. "House…"

As soon as Wilson's hand came to rest over House's arm, House yanked himself out of reach and recoiled against the door. "Stop it!"

Wilson jumped and then made a point of staring out the windshield, stunned. He could hear House breathing hard beside him and chanced a glance. House had jammed himself up against the passenger side door, his breath leaving steamy patches on the window in front of him. The light turned green – Wilson only knew because it cast a sickly-colored pall over House's face – and they continued to ride in silence. At some point, House ducked his head as if to hide, perhaps embarrassed by his outburst, and Wilson watched him covertly when they hesitated at a stop sign, troubled by the quiet.

Eventually, they pulled up in front of House's apartment, and Wilson couldn't stand any more awkward silence. "What's wrong?"

House shook his head against the window and mumbled, "Tired."

"You were fine when we left the hospital," Wilson pointed out.

"And then you ruined it," House snapped. Then he shuddered and swallowed a few times, his forehead pressed to the plexiglass.

Wilson shifted the Volvo into park and slumped back in his seat. "I'm worried about you. That's all, House."

"Yeah, well I told you to knock it the fuck off. I don't need you." House sat up to undo his seatbelt and then glared at Wilson for good measure before climbing slowly out of the car. A moment later, Wilson switched off the ignition and followed suit. He lingered at the mailboxes while House unlocked his apartment door, just to make sure that he was still welcome. House left the door standing halfway open for him, so Wilson grabbed the mail and shuffled inside.

The place was just as immaculate as when Wilson left it earlier that night, which was probably why House made a point of toeing his shoes off in the middle of the floor and then tossing his jacket on the couch. "I'm going to bed."

Wilson nodded even though House had his back to him. "Okay." It wasn't much of a stretch to imagine just how worn out House had to be, considering that it appeared as if House hadn't been home in several days. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Whatever." House grabbed a magazine off his desk, some tabloid, and then limped heavily down the hall.

Wilson watched him disappear into the bathroom, then turned around to lock up and switch off the lights. He moved House's shoes to the mat by the door, added his own to the pile, and hung up both their coats before he headed for the kitchen. He was staring into the empty, scoured sink before he realized that he was looking for something to clean just to occupy his hands. House hadn't left so much as a crumb for him to wipe up. Somehow, that disconcerted him even more, and he wandered to the bedroom only because he knew that it was a mess.

While he put the room to rights, he heard House start the shower. Ten minutes later, the water shut off and lopsided thump-steps indicated House's movement around the bathroom. Wilson imagined House drying off, followed by the plop of a damp towel hitting the floor. Then House hobbled back out into the hallway. Wilson paused to watch him come in and climb into bed, shutting off the light as if Wilson weren't there on the other side of the room, observing him. Without a word, Wilson fumbled in the dark for a clean pair of pajamas from the pile he had made of his clothes on the floor, then felt his way out to begin his own nighttime routine.

A few minutes later, Wilson joined him in bed, still licking the flavor of toothpaste from his lips. House rolled over, putting his back to Wilson, and Wilson hesitated before snaking a hand beneath the covers to find House's hip. House squirmed out from under his hand but Wilson merely scooted closer and tried again. That time, House let him touch, if only because he probably knew that Wilson wouldn't just give up on it. They ended up spooned together, House's frame wrought with a sort of tension that Wilson had not encountered in him in months. It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

"House, come on. Tell me what's wrong."

It didn't seem like House would bother answering, but then a little bit of tension bled out of him. "Right now, the fact that you won't let me sleep."

Wilson folded himself closer and cinched his arm over House's waist, his face less than an inch from the back of House's neck. He couldn't help but ask, "Is this because of me, or the shooting?"

House tucked his chin closer to his chest, drawing away from Wilson without leaving his embrace. He sounded utterly dejected when he insisted, "I don't know, Wilson."

"Okay," Wilson soothed. He really didn't want to upset House any further. Instead, he pressed his lips to the soft spot at the base of House's skull and enjoined, "Just relax." He placed another chaste kiss lower on House's neck and squeezed him a bit. When House didn't protest, Wilson took that as consent. He pulled his knees up against the backs of House's legs and fit himself more snugly against House's spine, his hand migrating up to splay fingers over House's sternum. "Is this okay?"

House shifted against him, an indeterminate rustle of limbs between bedding, and Wilson felt him sort of shrug. That was noncommittal at best, but Wilson went back to gently kissing the back of his neck, his hand inscribing slow circles over House's heart. After a minute or so, House interlaced their fingers, perhaps just to still Wilson's hand. Then House craned his neck back to catch a glimpse of Wilson's face in what little light filtered in from the illuminated bathroom down the hall. He blinked in the darkness, a flicker of eyelashes over two pinpoints of reflected light, then grumbled, "Sorry."

Wilson smiled, though he didn't feel it. "Nothing to apologize for."

A grunt answered that and House went back to just laying there, facing the wall.

Wilson breathed in graduations, inhaling the scent of freshly washed hair that had not quite dried yet. House tugged his hand free a second later and Wilson tightened his arm over House's chest, anticipating a bid for distance; he didn't want to let go.

House gave an indulgent sigh and stayed put, so Wilson resumed his gentle caress of House's chest. He could tell that House wasn't entirely comfortable; he held himself too still, too rigid. Wilson tried not to let his heart sink at the thought that House didn't want Wilson to touch him – that maybe when Wilson had struck him in the kitchen, he had done more lasting harm than he'd realized.

It was stupid, the prickles that started to clog Wilson's nose. He breathed through his mouth in a deliberate, slow rhythm and willed his recalcitrant brain to leave him be. He was indulging in self pity, and it was pathetic. If something were wrong with House, the stress of the shooting had more likely caused it than Wilson's erratic floundering. He felt House shiver at the rush of cool air against the back of his neck, and just to distract him before he suspected that Wilson was emoting behind him, he moved his hand down to flatten over House's stomach, pulling him in. House squirmed a little and then covered Wilson's fingers, guiding them lower.

That was all the invitation Wilson needed. He drew in a quick breath and ran his mouth up the side of House's neck, with tongue this time. House released his fingers and reached back to find Wilson's hip, and Wilson struggled to prop himself up on his elbow to get a better angle. He cupped House's groin and found a nascent erection there, so he began rubbing in tiny circles. All the while, he kept his lips moving, tongue dancing along House's carotid, and House subtly angled his pelvis to press against Wilson's hand.

House ran his fingers over the jut of Wilson's hip bone and then raised his arm over his head. At first, Wilson thought that House was going to reach for his hair, perhaps to pull Wilson's face closer so that he could reach Wilson's lips with his own. House didn't, though; he dragged his pillow down and then curled both arms around it. This puzzled Wilson, but since House made a point of shoving his ass against Wilson's groin at the same time, Wilson didn't question it. He merely followed the curve of House's spine to keep their bodies pressed together and intensified the motions of his hand between House's legs.

House shuddered and then mashed his face into the pillow to muffle a low moan, so Wilson shoved his hand into House's sleep pants and grasped his heated cock. That elicited something like a choked _mmph_, and House gave a full-body twitch as Wilson set up a laconic rhythm, massaging more than stroking in the absence of sufficient lubrication. He rolled House's foreskin up, and then teased it for a few moments before fisting him again.

House wriggled back against him some more in what felt like a deliberate manner, and Wilson finally felt his own blood flow shift southward. It surprised him; until that moment, he hadn't quite noticed his own unresponsiveness. House must have, which explained why he kept rubbing his ass back against Wilson with such insistence. Wilson huffed out a humid breath, stirring the hair at the back of House's head, and ground his pelvis forward so that House could feel the answering hint of hardness. There wasn't much.

"Wilson?"

Wilson chose a patch of skin on House's shoulder to milk before he answered, "Hm?" While he suckled, Wilson rocked gently against him, holding House's cock in his left hand, his torso folded over House's flank.

"You don't…" House shuddered when Wilson's roving index finger found his perineum, then rushed to say, "You don't have to."

"Mm. Don't have to what?" Wilson rolled House's balls over his fingers and then lightly pinched the excess skin that encased them.

"Ghihn." House flopped his face into to the pillow and fought to hold still as Wilson tugged a little at his scrotal sac. Into the pillow House replied, "You're not into this." He angled himself just enough to brush his backside over Wilson's groin, to draw unwanted attention there.

Wilson left off playing with him and hugged him tightly to his chest instead. It was true, Wilson wasn't really in the game for once, though he couldn't imagine why this would fail to turn him on. As an afterthought, he tossed out, "Maybe it's the meds." Side effects of antidepressants could include impotence, and he was now on almost double the dose he had previously taken. Wilson turned his face in against House's neck and absently mouthed at his shoulder. "Sorry."

House grunted and then shoved Wilson off so that he could roll onto his back. "Well, this is awkward."

Wilson grimaced in the dark where no one could see it. Up until now, if they had ever stopped due to lack of participation from one party's member, it was never Wilson's. The role reversal disturbed him. Wilson arranged himself on his own side of the bed, then scowled at ceiling and rolled back over to drape an arm across House's midsection.

House readjusted himself, one big squirming mass of discomfiture, and then groused, "Could you not do that?"

Wilson's mind stopped for a moment, and then he snapped, "Sorry." He untangled himself and rolled away to his own side of the bed. A few minutes passed and Wilson counted out drips from the bathtub faucet. He made a mental note to call a plumber and get that fixed; it was driving him nuts. And the prickles were back. He'd need a Sudafed soon at this rate.

Suddenly, House heaved out a sigh and jostled the bed in reaching for the lamp on his nightstand. He clicked it on and then practically threw himself into a sitting position, glaring at Wilson the whole time. "What is it?" he demanded.

Wilson squinted in the unexpected light and peered up at House's irritated countenance. Instead of saying anything constructive, Wilson looked away and then fumbled his way out from under the covers. "I'll sleep on the couch."

He made it all the way to the door before House stopped him with an indignant, "Hey. I'm talking to you."

Wilson paused, on hand on the jamb, and then slumped against the doorframe. "You need to sleep. _I _need to sleep. It's not a big deal."

The exasperation came out in House's voice, very little of it fond. "Don't be such a god damn martyr, Wilson. Just lay down and quit moping. I can hear you being a dope."

Wilson slouched lower and then pushed off the doorjamb, but he didn't go anywhere. He tossed a searching look at the hallway ceiling and then leaned back against the doorway to gaze at House. "You don't want me to touch you." He left out the _unless we're going to have sex_ clause. "I can't sleep in here and not touch you." He didn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, but it sort of was.

House dropped his eyes and then his gaze shifted off to one side. He picked at his fingers and then mumbled, "Bed's cold. Come back."

Even though he wanted nothing else, Wilson shook his head. "I can't even begin to understand what's going through your head, but you obviously want your space."

"I want you in my bed," House insisted. He shot Wilson an angry glance, daring him to contradict that. Then he relented and his gaze fell away again. "You know I don't do that cuddling shit."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed, watching House pick at imaginary fuzzies on the section of bedspread covering his knees. "Physical contact without physical gain just isn't your thing, right? There has to be an ulterior motive for the touching."

"Yeah, well, spooning _does_ lead to forking." House made an abrupt face and then grimaced at his dresser. "You make me sound like a freak." He shrugged, irritated and self-conscious. "So I'm not clingy. Big deal."

"Oh, you're clingy," Wilson countered with a sarcastic snort. "Just in the metaphorical sense."

House frowned as if he wanted to respond, but nothing made it past his lips aside from a weary sigh. Then he leaned over his lap to work a hand at the back of his neck.

Wilson started to see his own nervous tick acted out in front of him. It stopped him from saying anything more biting, and he sucked a lip in to worry between his teeth before reluctantly making his way back into bed. House waited long enough to be sure he would stay there, then stretched to turn the lamp off. Afterimages danced in front of Wilson's eyes and he settled on his back on the edge of the bed like they were strangers.

After a little while, Wilson heard House turn over again, putting his back to Wilson just like he originally had. Then House mumbled, "It's gonna be the slow death, then."

Wilson stopped breathing for a moment and then lumbered up on his elbows, strangely urgent in the shadows. He couldn't see House's face at all from this angle, but the filtered light coming in from the bathroom edged the long curve of House's body lumped beneath the covers. Wilson breathed, "What?"

"This." House lifted a hand long enough to point between them and then let it plop down on the mattress again. "Slow death by trauma-induced awkward silence." He shrugged. "It happens. Something shitty goes down, one person changes while the other doesn't, then things get weird and it all just…dies."

For lack of anything better, Wilson snapped, "Don't be morose." It was something House might say, although House's retort would probably sting more just by virtue of delivery via _his_ voice.

"I'm not morose," House argued. He spoke as if he thought this were perfectly obvious. "Just saying. There are patterns."

Wilson pressed his lips together in exasperation just to deny the fear that House may be right. Things were weird and silent, and Wilson had changed in some ineffable fashion while House remained his same fucked-up self, just with different baggage. "What patterns?" He couldn't _not_ ask.

House remained silent for almost a minute, and then he replied, "Stacy."

Wilson flared his nostrils to cover up his angry huff. "Can't you just, for one minute, draw your comparisons from a relationship _not_ involving Stacy?" He turned his head to glare at House even though House couldn't see it. "You have to have had at least one romantic involvement in your life that didn't end in unmitigated disaster. Can't you compare us to one of those?"

The sheets rustled, pulling the fabric taut over Wilson's calves, and then House snapped back, "Not all of us collect romantic involvements like baseball cards."

Wilson blinked, and then sucked in a breath. "Oh my god." He struggled to shove the blankets off and then climbed over to sit with his hip pressed against the small of House's back, bracing himself by leaning his palm in front of House's stomach. Now, he could see House's face, and House flicked a shuttered gaze up at him without turning his head more than an inch from the pillow. Wilson stated, "You can't be serious."

House took a second to look baffled, and then he burrowed into his pillow as if he intended to ignore the conversation and go to sleep.

The ploy didn't work; Wilson merely kept on talking. "You're telling me that you have no other comparisons?" He waited a moment, but of course, House declined to answer. "Stacy was your _only_ other serious relationship?" He paused again, then added an incredulous, "Ever?"

"Go to hell, Wilson."

"But… I could understand high school, maybe. Marine base, moving around all the time, no chance to really settle in with someone, but college? Med school?" Wilson leaned farther over him in a transparent bid to catch his eye; House turned farther into the pillow. "I know you had sex with Cuddy at Michigan."

"I had lots of sex," House griped. "It's not hard to get." He glared at Wilson from one eye long enough to add, "As _you_ well know." Then he stuffed half his face into the pillow again.

Wilson only rolled his eyes at that because by now, it was a conditioned response. "House, come on."

"Nobody wants a relationship with me," House sniped, his voice muffled and distorted by the pillow. "Most people don't even want a conversation with me. This surprises you, why?"

Wilson grinned because for some reason, that made him feel special, being one of only two people in that category.

"Crap," House grumbled. "You're getting sentimental, aren't you."

"It doesn't have to be a slow death, House." Wilson felt him tense, something that only he might ever notice, and added, "It doesn't have to die at all."

House griped something into the pillow, probably an obscenity.

Wilson shook his head fondly. "You're an idiot."

"Oh, get a life," House grumbled.

Instead of engaging him, Wilson stretched back out behind him. This time, House didn't try to get him off, though his frame turned still as stone wherever Wilson touched him. It was like he even managed to stop his capillaries from shuttling blood through those patches of skin. Wilson's hand traveled to House's stomach without conscious thought and House's abdominal muscles clenched for a second. For what felt like the hundredth time that evening, Wilson asked, "House, what's wrong?"

"God, Wilson, just stop already."

Wilson considered leaving off, but for once, it wasn't nosiness or oppressive concern that made him push. It was simple hurt. "Please, just talk to me." The tips of his fingers curled in against House's stomach, as if to anchor House and keep him there, as if House had always been slipping away and Wilson had only just noticed. The warmth of House's body seemed somehow colder than it should.

House wriggled to betray his discomfort, but it only made Wilson grip him tighter. Finally, House made an unhappy sound at being so hemmed in, and admitted, "I feel – " But he choked himself back to repressed silence.

Wilson tried to make his embrace encouraging, though he had doubts about whether House would respond as such. "Feel what?"

At first, House didn't move, and then he got frantic with no warning whatsoever. Wilson felt House dig his fingernails into the back of Wilson's hand, and then House scrabbled to pry it off his stomach. "Lemme go – let go!"

"House, what – " And then Wilson got it and released him, but they both ended up tangled in the bed sheets, and House barely avoided falling on his face in his haste to get out of the bed. "Jesus, calm down." Wilson tumbled his feet to the floor a moment later, watching House rebound off the door frame when his leg nearly gave out. Wilson caught him by one arm, intending only to keep him vertical, but House recoiled and lashed out, and they both ended up in a heap on the hallway floor. Wilson backed off as soon as he could, until his back hit the wall, watching helpless as House lost the battle over his stomach contents under an old hanging photograph of artistically arranged nineteenth century surgical equipment set in a sepia chromatic scheme.

Afterwards, they just sat there, separated by so short a distance that it should have amounted to nothing at all. Wilson didn't dare reach out, and it took him a while to feel the dull, warm sting on his bicep where House had grazed him with a closed fist. He had no idea when, exactly, House had managed to hit him. After a few minutes, House caught his breath sufficiently enough to sit up some, and he placed a hand over his scar in what looked like habit.

Wilson eyed him, then asked, "Are you better now?"

House nodded, for once devoid of attitude.

"How long?"

"What?" House licked his lips and then pulled a face at the lingering aftertaste of vomit. The smell of it pervaded the entire hallway but neither of them seemed to notice. Wilson, at least, was used to the odor since cancer patients often carried a faint, stale hint of it; House probably was too.

"The panic attacks. How long have you been having them?"

House shrugged. "They went away for a while."

That was probably as close as he would ever come to admitting that he'd been experiencing them for months. Hence, the Xanax; Wilson had been right after all. "No they didn't. But they got better for a while, didn't they?" No answer, so yes. "When did they come back? Like this, anyway?"

House hung his head and shook it.

Almost too quietly to hear, Wilson guessed, "Since the shooting?"

"I don't know."

For someone who prided himself on always having either an answer or a misdirection, House's insistent ignorance was either terrifying or a breakthrough. Or both. "House – "

"Please stop."

Wilson balked because he couldn't remember House ever asking for anything so meekly. "Okay," he agreed. How could he not? "I'm gonna get some towels before that dries."

It wasn't a question, but House nodded anyway and scooted back so that he wasn't looking right at the irregularly shaped puddle anymore. Wilson climbed to his feet and sidestepped to keep his distance from House, just in case. And he tried desperately not to think about or analyze what had just happened.

When he came back from the kitchen with a handful of damp paper towels and a soapy dishrag, House had stretched both legs out in front of him, his toes brushing the opposite wall. Hooded eyes tracked Wilson's progress, lingering on his feet as Wilson stepped over House's ankles and knelt to clean up the inadvertent mess all over the floor. Wilson glanced over his shoulder once to find House panting lightly and watching him like Wilson might do something to him, and then Wilson went back to scrubbing and drying the floor boards.

Wilson left House in the hall to dispose of the dirtied towels, then paused in the living room. His briefcase was sitting near the shoe mat. Inside were his pills. Wilson had the Ativan capsules with him and they were fast-acting, much better for this sort of situation than Xanax. House was currently on nothing but oxycodone, so it would be safe.

Wilson grabbed his pill bottle, read the potency on the label, and fished out two pills. Then he stowed the bottle back in his briefcase and grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen before venturing down the hallway again. House was digging his hand into his thigh by now; he was already paying for the fall, for moving the leg too fast and misplacing his weight. Whether he was sweating from the pain or the pale panic was anyone's guess at this point, but Wilson guessed the latter. He could see House shivering from an ebbing adrenaline bender.

"Here." Wilson crouched at arm's length and held out his upturned palm with the pills resting white against his flushed skin. "Ativan. It should calm you down."

House eyed the pills without lifting his head, then plucked them from Wilson's hand. Wilson held the water out as well, but House was already knocking them back dry and focusing on his leg. The fact that he took them without so much as a rude comment on the evils of psych meds came close to scaring Wilson. It meant that House couldn't control this anymore, whatever it was. It meant that House was pretty much at the end of his rope, and admitting it.

To distract himself from that, Wilson asked, "Do you need your other pills?"

"No," House replied, his voice soft and gravelly.

Wilson eyed him, then asked, "Seriously? You're not just saying that because you think it's what I want to hear?"

House turned his head, but not far enough to look at Wilson. Then he shrugged.

"Wait here," Wilson said, as if House could do anything else. He retrieved the bottle of oxy from House's nightstand and gave House one of those too, then slid down the wall beside him, though too far away to be tempted to touch. "You're almost out of these."

"They lasted all week," House bit back, but the heat in his tone came off as manufactured.

"That's not what I meant," Wilson said. He didn't even try to deny what House's silence accused him of, concerning the pill use. No matter the truth, Wilson didn't think House would believe that Wilson had only mentioned it because House would need a new script at some point, either for Vicodin or for something else. Wilson wondered when, exactly, his opinion on House's medication had led to House quietly denying himself pain relief when he obviously needed it. That wasn't like him.

They sat like that for nearly twenty minutes, Wilson looking at anything to keep his mind off House, and House fixated on his leg. It was hard for Wilson to just sit there and listen to House exhale unpleasant noises from the back of his throat while his hands alternated between soothing and hectic over his mutilated leg muscles, but Wilson didn't want a repeat performance of the mad scramble to get away from him. He also didn't want to talk about it any more than House for once.

Eventually, House stopped moving and Wilson heard him slump back against the wall. He risked asking, "Better now?"

House nodded and rasped, "Yeah." His voice sounded like he'd run his larynx through a paper shredder.

"Bed?"

House nodded again but made no move to stand.

"I'll get your cane." For the second time, Wilson climbed unsteadily to his feet and edged around House to get back into the bedroom. He hooked his fingers around House's cane and took it out to him, then stood back. "I can sleep on the couch."

"No." House leaned to his right and got his good leg under him, then hesitated before holding a hand up to Wilson.

To his credit, Wilson met House's careful gaze and didn't react other than to grasp House's hand and then his elbow, and haul him to his feet. Then Wilson let go and stepped away. "You sure?"

"I'm fine now." House wouldn't look at him as he hobbled past and ducked into the darkened bedroom, quick enough that Wilson didn't get a chance to see his expression before the gloom overtook it. But the way he carried himself…Wilson had never seen him look so drained.

To himself, Wilson said, "Okay." This time, when he crawled into bed, he stayed on his own side, though it killed him to leave House so alone right next to him.

About an hour later, Wilson was distracting himself by counting out even breaths. He didn't mean to simulate sleep on purpose; he was more concerned with trying to bore himself into a stupor. House apparently took it for sleep, though, because after whispering Wilson's name to make sure he got no response, he snuck across the bed and laid his hand on Wilson's stomach.

* * *

--TBC

Please R&R! It lets me know if I eff up the plot!


	26. Chapter 26

**Thanks to all of you who reviewed - I appreciate it! Please, please, please keep doing it; it's like crack to me. :P**

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"Doctor Wilson!"

Wilson looked up from the clinic file spread open on the nurse console in front of him, then furrowed his brow at the figure of Foreman trying way too hard to look casual about whatever he was up to. "Doctor Foreman?"

"Hey." Foreman stuck his hands in his lab coat pocket and shook his demeanor out along with his shoulders. That impression of false cheer left him. "So, I heard you got your treatment privileges back this morning."

Wilson glanced around on a reflex; he couldn't help his cheeks turning red at knowing that his suspension had been semi-public knowledge. "Yeah," he croaked. "Back to normal, mostly. Still seeing the shrink, but…" Wilson shrugged that off, as if it were perfectly normal.

"Cool." Foreman glanced aside too, then back. "You talk to House?"

Wilson raised his brows noncommittally. "We…reconciled. There was…_some_ talking." That morning, there had been _no_ talking, not even a greeting in the bathroom. Wilson had tried to strike up a dozen conversations but House kept leaving the room two words in. And then he had snuck out while Wilson was brushing his teeth, and roared off on his bike. Now, House had two vehicles at the hospital, not that the count mattered much.

"Uh-huh." Foreman looked like he would rather not give a damn, which surprised Wilson because it implied that Foreman _did_ give a damn. "Okay, look. I did not say this. Got it?"

Wilson's brows knit together. "Okay?"

Foreman pursed his lips and gave an exasperated sigh. Then he blurted out, "I think something's either wrong with him, or he's on something he shouldn't be. I thought maybe you'd know which."

"Oh." Wilson looked at his patient file just because it was there, then he shoved all the papers back in order and closed it up. "I'm already aware," he told Foreman, trying to look for all the world like they were two doctors discussing business. He twisted his pen to retract the ink ball and then arranged it neatly back in his pocket. "And he's not on anything, he's just…" Wilson sighed and rolled his hand off to one side. "It's complicated. He agreed to come to therapy with me, though…so that should be fun…or annoying." Wilson gave him half a wry smile and picked up his file, the patient's name already on the tip of his tongue as he stepped toward the waiting area.

"No," Foreman said. He grabbed Wilson's arm to stop him, then stepped around in front of him. "Not psychologically," he explained while Wilson fought not to glare. "I mean something physical – I think there's something physically wrong with him." Foreman finally let go of his arm.

Wilson's eyes trailed to the side, just to make sure that no one was close enough to overhear, and then he lowered his voice. "Why? What makes you think that?"

Foreman shrugged. "Little things. He falls asleep in the office all the time, and not his usual catnaps. It's like he's not sleeping at home."

"He hadn't been going home at all," Wilson replied. "And he said he hasn't been sleeping. Look, I appreciate your concern even if House doesn't, but I have a patient to – "

"I think he's been having seizures."

That stopped Wilson dead in his tracks. "You…what?"

"Just partials. Tonic clonic, maybe once or twice a day. I don't even think he noticed. He just stops whatever he's doing for maybe five seconds, swallows a few times…" Foreman took in Wilson's expression. "You've noticed."

"I never thought they might be seizures, just… I thought it was related to the anxiety or the panic attacks, or – " Wilson shut up in a hurry because his defensiveness was going to make him spew out something that Foreman had no business being privy to.

Foreman grew pensive, then slowly offered, "Some forms of temporal lobe seizures present as panic attacks or flashbacks. They often get misdiagnosed as psychological problems." He paused. "And House suffered a serious skull fracture less than a year ago."

Wilson felt sick at the reminder of that, but he quelled it. "Yeah. Right temporal bone." He didn't really want to betray House's confidence, but in the interests of medicine, he felt compelled to add, "They started around October. The, uh…he got a script for Xanax. And then he apparently stopped taking it because they tapered off until recently."

Foreman nodded. "They can come in clusters. So whatever's been going on, it's getting worse now."

"Could it be stress?"

Foreman shrugged. "Extreme stress could lower the seizure threshold in some cases. So maybe, yeah. Or maybe it's just been getting worse the whole time, and the presentation now is a coincidence. We'd need to get him an MRI to confirm any of this." Seemingly as an afterthought, Foreman raised a finger and added, "Oh – and you need an STD screening."

Wilson cringed and threw a terrified look around. No unwanted bystanders. Good. He glowered at Foreman and hissed, "God, you're as bad as him!"

Foreman made a bland face. "I'm just looking out for myself here."

"How?" Wilson demanded. "How does this have anything to do with you?"

"For starters, you made it my business when you told me in the first place," Foreman replied, blasé as all get-go. Wilson scowled, but Foreman ignored him. "It's like this. If you _did_ catch something from your beer chick, and you give it to House, he's gonna find out you cheated. And then _my _job will be a living hell until he gets you out of his system."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Okay, I get it." He sidestepped Foreman, his eyes on the clinic file in his hands because he'd forgotten his next patient's name.

Foreman moved with him to prolong the conversation. "If you don't get it done by the end of the day, I'll hunt you down and shove a handful of q-tips down your pants. I am _not_ going to be on the butt end of House's temper just because you can't keep your hands to yourself."

Wilson tried not to smile, but the mirth came out anyway. "I'd pay money to see the look on House's face if you did that in front of him."

Foreman grinned. "You couldn't pay me enough." Then he wandered off toward the elevators.

The rest of Wilson's morning went off without a hitch, until he glanced at the clock and realized he was about to be late for his appointment with Olivia. He paused on his way to the stairs to watch through the glass as House half-crouched in front of his white board, and then he detoured to the diagnostics conference room.

" – don't care what all those morons think," House was saying, his back to the door. "People don't just bleed water." Then he straightened and twisted to gauge his fellows' reactions – they looked irritated, except for Kutner. House's eyes shifted at the shadow that Wilson cast, and then he grinned. "Wilson!" His face immediately fell into old, sarcastic lines. "Tell these idiots that we're practicing medicine, not Catholicism."

Wilson shot the fellows a sympathetic look, and then gestured toward House's office. "You got a minute?"

"No," House snarked. "The end of the world is upon us." He did an over-the-top impression of cowering from the heavens, then tossed his marker on the table. It landed in someone's coffee cup and Taub jumped. "Wilson and I are going to have office sex now. Check her platelet levels while I'm gone."

"_His_ platelet levels," Foreman corrected. It said something when House's innuendo failed to get any sort of rise at all.

House was already halfway to his office, and all he did was wave a hand over his shoulder. "Whatever. Test it."

Wilson trailed after House, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and glanced back out toward the conference room to make sure that everyone else had already gone. Then he watched House sink into his desk chair with a long sigh.

"Don't you have to go get shrinked right about now?"

"Yes. My transformation to Oompa-loompa is nearly complete." Wilson took a seat across from him and tried to appear at ease. "All I need now are pompom shoes and some ridiculous pants."

"You're not orange enough."

"They have tanning salons to fix that."

"And you can't sing worth shit."

"Poor Gene Wilder; he'd be so upset if he knew." Wilson heaved a disappointed sigh and then looked up just as House shoved a pill in his mouth. He didn't think he made a face at that, but he must have since House looked shifty all of a sudden as he put the bottle back in his pocket. Wilson pretended not to notice. "You wanna come with?"

House stared at him for a second. "What, now?"

"You said you'd come to one," Wilson replied, unaccountably nervous. Perhaps this was a bad idea after all. "No talking required," Wilson reminded him. "You can just sit there and flick rubber bands at her if you want."

House looked down and then bounced his cane a few times before saying, "This is because of last night, isn't it."

"And this morning." Wilson couldn't bring himself to deflect right now. "You didn't say a single word to me."

House scrunched his face up and the cane bounced harder between his feet. "Kinda hard to address that in a therapy session I'm not participating in."

"I know." Wilson glanced down at his watch; five minutes past noon. Fuck it. "Are you just embarrassed?"

"Of course I'm embarrassed," House hissed. His eyes scanned the hallway over Wilson's shoulder, so Wilson glanced there too. The door was closed, so as long as they kept their voices down, no one would overhear.

Wilson faced forward again. "Foreman thinks they might be seizures. The, uh, flashbacks and stuff." Wilson gestured at random.

House gave him an inscrutable look. "Foreman."

Wilson rushed to assure him, "I didn't say anything, House. I swear. He noticed other things and he found me in the clinic this morning. He was worried you might be on something, but I told him you weren't… You're not, right?"

House's cheek twitched. "What other things?" Great. Now he was hostile.

Instead of giving a straight answer, Wilson pointed out, "Gabapentin withdrawal can cause seizures, especially in someone already susceptible. Which you are. Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure you didn't bother to wean yourself off of it slowly."

House glared a little while longer, just because it made Wilson squirm, and then he glowered at the light box on the wall. "Timing's off. It's not withdrawal." His eyes returned to Wilson, though he didn't turn his head back. "Why does Foreman think I'm having seizures, anyway? I haven't had any…things here since meth-dad lost it."

"Are you sure?" Wilson licked his lips and straightened in his seat. He was ten minutes late now; Olivia might come looking for him. Or Cuddy. It was ridiculous how much scrutiny he drew now – of the bad kind. "The flashbacks themselves could be a form of seizure."

House puffed out one cheek and then spun his chair so that he faced the balcony door. "Go see your shrink, Wilson."

That wasn't a total dismissal, so Wilson decided to let him ponder it for a while. A dim corner of House's mind would work the idea over more thoroughly than anyone else's conscious brain ever could. "Yeah, okay. So you won't come today?"

"I'm tired."

"Right." Wilson stood up and removed the hand that had magically appeared at the back of his neck. "You wanna go bowling after work?"

House's head tilted, and then he swiveled to look at Wilson. After scanning his posture for tells, House shrugged. "Okay."

Wilson nodded. "Good. I'll come by here at six."

"Sounds good." House sounded dubious, as if he suspected Wilson of plotting something, but for once, Wilson had no ulterior motive. He just wanted to get out and do something normal, like he and House had used to do. God, they hadn't bowled in almost a year.

"Okay, then." Wilson made his way to the door, and then hesitated with his hand on the handle. Without really considering it, Wilson crossed back to House's desk, rounded it, and leaned down to peck House on his scruffy cheek. House stiffened but didn't pull away, and Wilson drew back, trying not to turn scarlet. He had never done that to House before – the goodbye kiss. It felt weird. "Right. See you at six."

House didn't say anything, so Wilson rushed out. He didn't want to see the expression on House's face because he couldn't imagine it being anything good.

* * *

"BFD," Olivia said, rearranging the contents of Wilson's file, which she had spread out across her desk. "So you kissed him. Isn't that what couples are supposed to do?"

"Yeah, but not us," Wilson replied. His cheeks were still burning. At least Olivia hadn't reamed him for being fifteen minutes late. "You just don't touch House like that."

Olivia paused to fix Wilson with a dubious stare. "How? Tenderly? Lovingly?"

"Casually."

Olivia's brow crinkled, and then she feigned that sort of aloof disinterest that tended to put Wilson at ease. If she appeared not to give a shit about Wilson beyond her professional capacity, then Wilson talked more freely. He knew what Olivia was doing, but it worked anyway. "Casually," she echoed. "Okay, then how _do_ you touch him?"

Wilson shrugged. "Well, there's sex." Then his neck flushed along with the rest of his face. "Not that we've been having it lately."

"Since before the shooting, would be my guess."

Wilson could feel his skin heating up and he wished he were better at hiding embarrassment. Most other things, he could gloss over with impunity, but not that. "I don't honestly know which of us is more frustrated by that. And, um…since we're on the subject, I'm going back to my old dosages."

The seeming nonsequiter didn't faze Olivia in the slightest. "You'll keep the Ativan on you for emergencies, though."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed, but only because he intended to have it on hand for House.

"You've been experiencing side effects?" Olivia asked. "Obviously sexual." A devilish glint showed up in her eyes. "You know, we haven't really discussed the sexual aspect of your life, aside from your fidelity issues. Do you like sex with House?"

Wilson gaped at her. "Is this really necessary?"

Olivia laughed. "Yeah, you like it. What about House. Does he like sex with you?"

Wilson started to retort again, but something stopped him. He ended up croaking a monosyllable and then frowning at her, pensive. "I don't really know for sure. He seems to, but he…hides so much."

Olivia turned serious at that, professional. "Why would you think he doesn't like it?"

Wilson scratched at his temple with one finger, his eyes glued elsewhere. "I know he _likes_ it. He, uh…you know. Gets off. But I can't always tell if he wants to, or if he's just humoring me. It seems a lot like he's just humoring me." The dared blowjob that started everything came to mind, but not for long. House had just been nervous then.

"Why would he humor you? House doesn't humor anyone, from what I've heard of him."

"He humors me all the time," Wilson replied, surprisingly bitter. "He thinks if he doesn't, I'll leave again." Wilson made a face at his hands. "I can't make him understand… He just gets so scared, I think." He chanced a glance at Olivia. "You don't think this whole relationship is just him trying to figure out how to make me stay, do you?"

"No," Olivia replied. She smiled in sympathy. "I don't think it's a sham. I think he truly cares about you. He gimped in here to yell at me for being an idiot, remember? In his pajamas."

Wilson gave her a sad smile. "Barefoot. Yeah." He clung to that image for a moment – House pissed off as all hell because he felt that someone had wronged or ignored Wilson.

"So," Olivia said just to break him from his glum thoughts. "Aside from sex, how do you touch him? How does he touch you?"

"Um." Wilson thought about that for a moment. "He, uh…doesn't touch me. If he falls asleep first, I can get next to him."

Olivia frowned and made a poor attempt to hide her incredulity. "I'm just going to assume that PDA's are out just because the two of you aren't technically _out_ yet. But what about when you're at home? Say, when you're watching television. Do you hold hands? Touch his knee?"

Wilson shook his head. "He gets antsy, so no. I used to try, back when we first got together, but he doesn't like it." He shrugged because Olivia's expression was getting to him. "I don't mind. It's not like I'm all that touchy-feely, anyway. I used to hate it when my wives insisted on laying all over me on the couch."

"An unwelcome invasion of your personal space by your significant other is very different from subtle physical expressions of affection."

Wilson wrinkled his nose. "Are you quoting a textbook or something?"

Olivia glanced at the ceiling. "Maybe. I can't remember." Then she looked at Wilson again. "When you wake up in the morning, what do you do?"

"I go make coffee since House sleeps later than I do." Wilson shook his head to ask where the hell this was going.

"Do you tell him you're leaving the room?"

"I don't have a death wish," Wilson rebutted. "House hardly ever sleeps. Waking him up just to tell him something he already knows you do every morning is just asking him to saran wrap the toilet."

"Hm. Do you do anything at all, aside from slink out of bed with your tail tucked between your legs?"

Wilson glared at her. "I don't _slink_ out of bed."

"Answer the question, slinky."

"Sometimes, I forget why I dislike you."

Olivia grinned. "And he deflects."

Wilson frowned, then made a face at the potted plant that he had slowly become acquainted with. "Sometimes, I'll just…you know. Pat his hair or something." He shrugged because now that he'd said it, it sounded pathetic.

Olivia could tell how this was putting him out, so she skewed the subject. "What about House. Describe one way he touches you in non-sexual situations."

Wilson moved his shoulders again. "Well, he put a hand on my stomach last night." He paused, then added, "He thought I was already asleep."

Olivia folded her hands, waiting for more. Then she moved her head sideways on her neck. "And? What else?"

"That's…that's pretty much it. Stuff like that, once in a while." Wilson glanced at her, then focused on the plant so that he wouldn't have to see the pity on her face. "It's not like that," he insisted.

"Like what? You don't even know what I'm thinking."

"You're thinking how sad that is, and you're busy feeling sorry for me." Wilson huffed out an exasperated breath and crossed his arms. "He doesn't need me to coddle him. He's not some simpering, weak little girlfriend."

"Mm." Clicking drew Wilson's attention back to find Olivia tapping a pen cap against her front teeth. She stopped and leaned her arms on her desk. "Those are his words again. Yes?"

Wilson sighed and then gave an irritated shrug as confirmation.

"You told me he once tried to all but molest you just to get you to hold his hand."

"Yeah, well. That's House." Wilson's nostrils flared at that.

"Does he flinch?"

Wilson looked up. "What?"

"When you try to initiate casual contact. Does he flinch?"

Wilson hesitated to answer. "Sometimes. Other times he just tenses up or holds his breath."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know!" Wilson barked, defensive on House's behalf. "Some people just don't like to be touched, okay? It's not a big deal."

"Actually, I think it sort of is," Olivia argued. "He reacts like his initial expectation is pain, and you know it, and it bothers you."

Wilson opened his mouth to contradict her, but he ended up closing it over the silence in his brain.

"Aha!" Olivia pointed at him. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Shut up," Wilson muttered.

"Abuse does that to a person," Olivia remarked. "I know you don't want to break his confidence, but honestly – you don't actually think it was a one-time deal, do you? He must have described other incidents."

"Think _what_ was a one-time deal?" Wilson gave her a bewildered look.

"House's father impersonating a Neanderthal." Olivia picked up a manila folder from Wilson's official file and held it like she expected Wilson to know what she was talking about.

It took Wilson several seconds to realize what she was holding, and then his stomach tried to crawl out his throat. "You _read that_?!"

Olivia turned concerned, and she glanced at the folder in her hand. "Isn't that why you gave it to me? I thought you needed to talk about it – I thought that was why you came to me in the first place."

"_No_, you weren't supposed to read that! I didn't even mean to give it to you, I just wanted to get rid of it!" Wilson threw a panicked look at the uppermost corner of the room and then dropped his face into his hands. "_Fuck_. I forgot you even had it."

"I didn't know I wasn't supposed to read it!" Olivia hissed. When Wilson glanced at her from between his fingers, she appeared seriously spooked. "God! You could have said something. James… He doesn't know you have this, does he." She didn't even wait long enough for him to respond. "_Does he!?_"

All Wilson said to that was, "I am so dead."

Olivia threw a glance at the ceiling, swearing under her breath, and then she glared at Wilson. "I investigated this, you moron! I called people, I called in _favors_!"

Wilson shrank in his chair and let his hands fall to his lap. "You didn't."

"Fuck, shit, ass, mother-sucking lint ball, lollipop…" She looked at the folder like it had just kicked her puppy. "I could lose my license over this! So could you, and whoever gave this to you…_damn_ you!." Olivia slapped the folder down on her desk and fumed at her potted plant.

Wilson silently beseeched the plant for answers too, but it was apparently too dusty to be of use. "He doesn't have to know. Just shred it, and never speak of it again."

Olivia shot him a murderous look.

"He knows I have it," Wilson offered. "He also knows I never read it. By now, he probably thinks I got rid of it anyway. It's okay."

Olivia's frown deepened and slid off into pensive realms. "You don't know what's in here?" She tapped the folder with one manicured nail.

"No." Wilson shook his head to underscore that. "He can tell me if he wants to. I already told him that – I won't push it."

"God, you're impossible," she muttered. "I thought you knew, and you were just too busy being an idiot to know what it meant." She paused to suck in an angry breath. "I thought we were talking about this in asides and vague implications this whole time."

Wilson spread his hands and said, "Sorry." Though he didn't think this was his fault, not exactly.

Olivia seemed slightly mollified, but still royally pissed. "You should push it."

Wilson gave her a bewildered look. "What?"

"Push it," Olivia repeated. "You keep hinting that this" – she made a rude gesture at the folder – "is causing him some sort of anxiety. It probably is, and by extension, it's affecting your relationship with him. You need to push it."

"I…" Wilson shook his head hard because he knew under what terms House would divulge that. "No."

"Why the hell not?"

Wilson recoiled in his seat, his heart rate spiking for a moment.

Olivia held up her hands, fending him off, as it were. "Sorry. I'm pissed. Just…" She sighed and affected a put-upon expression. "It's normal for people to refuse to talk about this sort of thing. Perfectly normal – like self preservation. They learn to keep quiet as kids, and even decades later, they just can't break that one commandment."

"He's not refusing," Wilson countered, and then wished he hadn't.

Of course, Olivia picked up on his trepidation. "Then…okay, I'm confused. He _wants_ to talk to you about it?"

Wilson made a series of faces, running the gamut between degrees of annoyance and discomfort, then replied. "Yeah. Or at least, he says he does." He paused. "But that was before all of this, and the fighting, and the…you." Wilson gestured at her with heel of his hand, as if she, herself, were a vulgar word.

"Then what's the problem?" Olivia demanded. She was still a little miffed, and Wilson could hardly blame her at this point. "Did he put conditions on it or something?"

They were getting too close to private things that Wilson didn't want to discuss with her. "Sort of." He hedged on her leaving it at that.

"So why haven't you met them?" Olivia asked.

Yeah, of course. Why would a psychiatrist leave something like that alone? "It's complicated."

Olivia hesitated, then smirked. "You mean embarrassing."

"God…" Wilson smashed his face into his palm. His stupid blushing cheeks were betraying him again. "Yeah," Wilson snapped, but only because he couldn't deny it now.

"And what, you think it's _not_ completely mortifying for him?"

Wilson scrubbed his hand down until it covered only his mouth, and peered curiously at Olivia. Then he lowered his hand to say, "I know it's hard for him. He's said as much. But he wants…things I just can't…do," he finished lamely.

Olivia scrutinized his face and posture for a moment, and then for no good reason, her eyes widened. She schooled her features back into nonchalance in record time, but not soon enough. "It's something sexual."

Why, exactly, had this entire session revolved in some flimsy manner around Wilson's sex life? He glared at her.

To his surprise, Olivia didn't inject her usual flippancy into the conversation; she grew dead serious. "What did he ask you to do?"

Wilson blinked, shaken by her sobriety. "I don't think I should be talking about this with you."

"Probably not, but I'm pretty sure you've got no one else in this case. So either spill it, or I start guessing."

Wilson's cheek started twitching and his gaze darted uneasily away.

"James…"

"I'm not a sadist." It just sort of tumbled out.

"I could've guessed that," Olivia said, her tone contrived to sound sympathetic. The artifice actually worked to quell some of Wilson's more skittish impulses. "He's a masochist?"

Wilson shrugged, unwilling to commit either way. He glanced at the clock, elated for all of three seconds to see the hour hand impaling the big number one. Then he remembered that he had been late and he technically had to sit here for another fifteen minutes, or else risk getting suspended all over again. Stupid psychiatrist. Stupid Cuddy too, for that matter, approving the damn leave in the first place.

Olivia's voice broke his reverie. "Did he ask you to hurt him?"

"I'm not sure," Wilson replied. His voice sounded flat to his own ears, and he didn't actually think himself capable of silence anymore; Olivia's quiet solicitation was having an effect on him after all. "He just…asked for the… I bought him these cuffs for his birthday. It didn't mean anything then, it was just…you know. Sorta kinky." He shrugged and tried to appear adorably sheepish, but he felt queasy. "It was supposed to be fun."

"And it wasn't?"

A mirthless laugh tumbled from Wilson's lips. "Scared the hell out of me," he admitted, then quickly averted his eyes. The plant welcomed his gaze, at least.

"How so?"

"He talked," Wilson said, his heart pounding to know that he was saying private things that he should probably keep to himself. "Divulged things, just…talked." He glanced at Olivia and found her face carefully blank. It encouraged him to say more. "House doesn't talk – not like that. You don't give that sort of information to the enemy."

"How are you the enemy?" Olivia asked.

Wilson explained, "Everyone's the enemy to him. Even me. _Especially_ me."

"Because you can hurt him."

Wilson chuckled, a dark and humorless sound. "Oh, yeah. And I have, so many times."

Olivia digested this, and then raised her brows. "It doesn't sound like he's asking you to hurt him. Just to provide a safe haven."

Wilson snorted, incredulous. "He wants me to truss him up and make him talk to me. He said so."

"That doesn't necessarily involve pain," Olivia replied, exasperated. "People in those situations usually aren't looking for you to cane them, no joke intended. There are better methods of persuasion." She paused, then added, "And if he actually asked you for this point blank, shame included, then he needs it. He needs to tell you whatever he's got percolating around in his head, and he needs you to make it safe enough for him to do so. It's convoluted and it doesn't make sense to you – I know that. But that doesn't mean that it's psychologically unsound."

Wilson stared at her, his face bland out of no design, and then realized that his knee was bouncing obnoxiously all over the place. He stilled it.

"I can recommend someone to you. He consults on technique and such, and he's very good at keeping things confidential. I've sent a few people his way in the past – he's a doctor."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. No way.

"I think he even works here. Or at least he did, last time I checked."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Wilson said. He stole another glance at the clock. Five minutes to go. Then he glared at Olivia for good measure because she was already sifting through business cards in the top drawer of her desk. With an exasperated sigh, he remarked, "Well, this has certainly been enlightening." As he made to stand up, Olivia thrust a business card under his nose. He tilted his head enough to read Chase's name and a phone number, then rolled his eyes.

"Take the card," Olivia insisted, twiddling it between two fingers.

"Seriously, Olivia. It's not necessary." He paused long enough to swipe the manila folder from between her arms, and then rounded his chair. He was cutting out early, but only by a minute or two. Big deal.

"Serious, nothing," Olivia snapped. She stalked him across the office and slammed her hand against the door before he reached it. "Take the damn card. You have to come to terms with this if you expect House to open up to you, and trust me, House _needs_ to open up to you. Actually, House needs a shrink, but that'll never happen, so you're stuck. This guy can reassure you."

Wilson fumed and then snapped, "That guy _already_ reassured me. He was House's fellow." Then he grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open, forcing Olivia to stumble out of the way. "Good afternoon, doctor."

"Hey, med check!" Olivia called after him.

Wilson waved her away. "I'll send you my blood. Don't have a coronary."

He slammed the door over the picture of Olivia gazing at the business card in her hand, one eyebrow arched. It put a grim smile on Wilson's face, and the records clerk gave him a funny look as he passed her, headed for the industrial paper shredders. Without a second thought, he jammed the folder and its contents into the feeder and switched it on, then watched in satisfaction as the stupid pilfered incident report came out the other end in ribbons. Not that it solved his problems, but hey. Wanton destruction could be therapeutic.

* * *

Bowling was a spectacular disaster.

Wilson drove home as slowly as humanly possible, and House didn't make a single comment about his granny driving for once. This was probably due to the fact that he had his hands full holding his leg in place, biting his lip and screwing his eyes shut, fighting not to make any unmanly noises over there in the passenger seat. Wilson refrained from outright shows of sympathy and settled for asking House a dozen times if he needed another pill. He was taking the Vicodin again as of that afternoon, which was probably why it wasn't helping much yet; oxy was much more potent, and House's body had grown used to it with alarming speed. Wilson chose not to think about the implications of tolerance like that.

Finally, Wilson forced another pill on him and then recited a list of punishments that they could inflict on the asshole who left his bowling ball in the middle of the damn floor, some options illegal and at least one of them physically impossible. House didn't crack a grin, but he looked appreciative of Wilson's attempt to distract him.

They lapsed into silence at some point, and Wilson found himself asking, "How's the bruising, anyway?"

"Fine," House bit out. He swallowed something else.

"Aggravated?"

"Yes, you do tend to piss me off."

Wilson scowled. "I meant, did falling on your ass in the bowling alley aggravate the bruising on your leg. God – why do I have to spell everything out for you?"

"I'm intentionally dense. _Fuck!_"

"Sorry, sorry." Wilson slowed down some more to bounce more softly over the uneven, chewed up roadway in a construction zone.

House's teeth cut into his bottom lip, but he refrained from further obscenities for a while.

Out of the blue, Wilson asked, "How about your kidney?"

"Quit playing twenty questions with the cripple."

"House…"

"Fine," House snapped, his voice reedy. "I'm peeing yellow again. Haven't we been over this already?"

"Sue me for giving a rat's ass." Wilson paused. "That's good, though. That you're doing better, I mean."

House parroted, "That's good, though," then glowered out his window, his mood fouling further by the second. "I hate this."

Wilson glanced over, but House had his face pressed to the crook of his elbow. "I know."

Into his shirt, House growled, "Can't even fucking bowl."

"And yet you swan dive so gracefully." Wilson only said it because House would have his ass in a sling if Wilson dared to indulge his self pity.

House snickered in response.

The silence grew oppressive faster than Wilson expected. Time was, he and House could sit around for hours without speaking and feel completely at ease. Wilson didn't like this change in their relationship, like being physically close had somehow ruined the friendship part after all. "So, um… How was work?"

House didn't move at first, and then he sat up straight to blink at Wilson. "Fine, _dear_. And how was _your_ day?"

Wilson made a face out the windshield. "Yeah, okay. I get it."

House hissed as they went over what the street sign drolly referred to as a 'bump.' The Volvo protested on squeaking springs, and then House demanded, "Why are you so uptight today?"

The snark was just a cover for House being miserable while in company, something Wilson expected the moment he heard House spewing out every dirty word he could think of, and then some, from the bowling alley floor behind him. Wilson smiled, tolerant, and replied, "My shrink shrunk my brain more than usual." Wilson flipped the turn signal and maneuvered somewhat smoothly onto a freshly paved side street. He could have sworn that House sighed in relief to leave the rumble-road construction area behind even though it would take them twice as long to get home by this route. A heartbeat later, Wilson muttered, "Nothing. I'm just… Nothing."

"Right," House replied, his face a study in sarcasm. "I'm gonna sit over here and make nice with my inner child now. We can talk when I'm done."

Wilson rolled his eyes, and then stopped halfway through, his gaze stuck on the sun guard. "Wait – are you offering to talk?"

"Hey, no interrupting. I'm busy having a sing-along here." His gaze wandered ceilingward and he began absently humming to himself. It sounded suspiciously like the theme song to Snorks.

Wilson pursed his lips. "Seriously. Are you offering?"

House fell silent and cast an annoyed look out the window, then tried to act inconvenienced; he didn't quite pull it off. "Why? Do you need to bare your soul or something?"

"No, but if you're a captive audience, then there is something I'd like to address." Wilson snuck a furtive glance at the passenger seat just as House clamped his jaw in something akin to irritation. "It wouldn't kill you to indulge me now and then."

"You have a therapist for that. I don't wanna discuss my stupid ex-patient or his stupid dad."

"Neither do I," Wilson replied. And it was true – he didn't want to discuss how it had felt to watch some nut job stick a gun in House's face, or to see a child's head explode in a thunderclap of silence. Even Olivia had let him avoid that subject.

"Or my pills, or the motorcycle, or the fact that your apartment lease is up at the end of the month – "

"If you keep prohibiting things, we'll end up talking about nothing at all." Wilson made a mental note about his lease, though; House somehow kept better track of those things than Wilson did, and he had sort of hoped not to renew it.

"That's the idea," House quipped. He seemed oblivious to Wilson's thought processes. "And no patients, either. If you need to cry on somebody's shoulder about little Martha Button-nose kicking the bucket, call Cameron." He paused. "Or a hooker."

Wilson threw him a scornful look. "You can't hire a hooker for emotional support."

House countered, "You can hire a hooker for anything, as long as you pay for it."

Wilson made an exasperated face, wondering what sorts of non-sexual things House may have hired one for, then turned his eyes back to the road. "I don't need a shoulder to cry on, House. And if I did, I'd tie you to the couch and then use yours. It's free."

House snorted, then grimaced as the car rocked unexpectedly. A second later, he hissed, "Fucking _ow_!"

"Sorry," Wilson mumbled for the umpteenth time.

House sucked in a sharp breath, then said something nasally that sounded like, "Mnn." Before Wilson could comment on that little noise, House snapped, "Fine. Talk." He probably just wanted to distract Wilson from any commentary concerning his leg.

Wilson hesitated because he had no idea how to really phrase this, and the timing couldn't be worse considering how things had been lately, and House would go into porcupine mode the second Wilson mentioned anything that seemed even remotely critical… "I think Foreman's right. I think the flashbacks are being caused by seizures. You should go back on the gabapentin so that we can wean you off of it properly, and if that doesn't make them stop, then you should get an EEG and an MRI." The car went still and Wilson pulled up next to a stop sign. Since the rest of the intersection was empty, he idled there for a minute. When he chanced a look at House, Wilson discovered him slumped even lower in his seat, chewing a thumbnail. The only other time Wilson could recall him doing that was in Atlantic City, trying to figure out how to kill a guy and make off with his heart in the interests of philanthropy. "House?"

House drew a shaky breath and stuck his hand in his lap. "I said no pill talk."

Wilson had expected opposition, so it didn't really scare him off. "This isn't about pills, House. It's about your health."

"Just drop it," House snapped, his expression hidden since he had turned to face the window.

"Do you want them to keep coming?" Wilson demanded as reasonably as he could. "I'm not trying to backdoor you over the Vicodin or Ngyen. I'm just trying to rule out drug withdrawal as a reason for you getting so much worse."

House's gaze flickered in Wilson's direction, but fell short.

"House, it got so bad last night, you threw up all over the hallway. And I didn't even see it coming – you were freaking out that whole time in bed, and I had no clue." Wilson took a moment to swallow, then asked, "Do you know what that feels like? For me, I mean. What if we'd kept going and had sex, and it hit critical mass _then_?" Wilson leaned forward in his seat, craning his neck to catch House's eye, but their gazes only met for a bare instant.

House's eyes found the door handle immediately thereafter. "You're just pissed because you didn't get any." It sounded like snark, but Wilson could detect a hint of warning to back off, like the low, throaty growl of a cornered animal.

Wilson pressed his lips together, then sucked one between his teeth. "I'm the one who couldn't get it up, House. Stop deflecting." He glanced in the rearview mirror just to make sure they weren't holding anyone up, then said, "I know you don't want to talk about the content, but why won't you even address this from a medical standpoint?"

House shifted, unnerved even in peripheral movements. "I'm not talking about this with you. Drive the damn car." His hand rubbed over his scar, but it looked like it hurt to put pressure there again.

Wilson frowned and inwardly swore, averting his gaze before House could track it to his leg. That had just healed; Wilson was going to have to deal with a grouchy, untouchable House for another week now. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel though it did nothing to calm his sudden nerves. "House – "

"You know, I changed my mind. Let's talk about Danny after all." Though the care-nothing attitude came out strong, so did his desperation to end the discussion. "I don't really care which one."

Wilson choked on a breath and immediately straightened in his seat, eyes forward. Then he whispered, "Asshole."

"You started it."

Wilson glared at him, prepared to insult him by any means necessary, just to knock him down a peg, but House's eyes were glued out his window again, his knuckles white over the head of his cane. Wilson sighed and looked down, listening to House strangle his cane in the next seat. That was House-posture for unacknowledged remorse; he knew he shouldn't have said that about Danny. After running a hand through his hair, Wilson slumped back and softly enjoined, "Just think about it."

Petulant, House replied, "No."

Wilson's nostrils flared, but he dropped it and checked for oncoming cars yet again. This must have been the only deserted intersection in all of Princeton. "Okay. I'm dropping it."

House nodded, and then proceeded to fidget with his cane. "Can we go home now?"

Wilson kept his foot on the brake pedal and swallowed hard. "I've been thinking about all the stuff you've said…how you wanted to talk, but with the cuffs, and…I think I could try it. If, you know… If you still wanted me to." He could feel the adrenaline urging him to flee at all costs, though he couldn't fathom why he should be so terrified right now.

"Home, Wilson," House insisted. "Just drive home."

"House, I'm just trying to – "

"I _will_ get out of this car," House interrupted. "And I'll walk my sorry, crippled ass all the way to my apartment – in agony – just to make you feel bad." He pierced Wilson with an irritated cobalt stare. "Unless you _drive home_. Now."

Wilson stared back, well aware that in a battle of wills, House would trounce him. Sure enough, Wilson backed down and let up on the brake. They coasted through the intersection. "I'm just offering," Wilson whispered. He wasn't sure that House heard him until they pulled up in front of 221B, and Wilson switched the car off.

House grabbed the door handle, then stopped, his head hung low, Wilson barely within his range of vision. He licked his lips. "Don't offer again, Wilson. I mean it."

Caught off guard, Wilson started to shake his head because he didn't realize what House was responding to. Then he stopped himself and looked away. "I've messed that up, haven't I?"

House wet his lips again; his mouth had probably gone dry. "Yeah," he croaked. "But it's not really your fault." Then he fidgeted self consciously for a second before shoving the car door open.

Wilson didn't try to help him get into the building, but he stayed close, waiting to catch his arm if he started to fall. Since he was so fixated on House, he assumed that House brought himself up short in the foyer because he had stepped wrong. Wilson grabbed a few letters from the mailbox so that House wouldn't get even more pissed off at being watched and coddled, then turned toward the apartment door. Then Wilson froze too.

The door to unit B was cracked open and lights were on inside, ones that Wilson knew they hadn't left on that afternoon. But that wasn't what made his blood run cold. A newspaper clipping was taped up over the peep hole, facing them. An article about the double murder and suicide of Richard Lyamone.

---tbc


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N - I got a couple of questions about the ongoing gallon-of-milk reference from the last chapter. I know it was sort of a one-line thing that I glossed over before, but back in chapter 21, Wilson reflected that House acted like he thought Wilson would just go out for a gallon of milk one day and never come back, like a weird sort of abandonment complex. Sorry for the vagueness. I hope you all enjoy this part!**

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

"They're touching my piano."

"I'm not really all that concerned about your piano right now, House."

Police officers milled all over House's living room, dusting for prints and taking photographs, and generally doing a dozen other innocuous things to set House on edge. "Why did you have to call them, anyway?"

"Because that's what normal people do when drug dealers trash their home." Wilson gave an exasperated sigh, though he glanced down to where House sat hunched in his desk chair, grousing over the invasion of his personal sanctuary. The cops had already dusted it for prints, but House had sat down without waiting for anyone to wipe the black powder off; he had smudges all over the elbows of his maroon button-down. Wilson himself was perched on the desk next to him, his arms folded. He figured that House was probably more upset over the police officers than the actual vandals. Wilson followed House's eyes to the piano again and made a face at it; sometimes, he wished House would put as much effort into a person as he put into caring after the damn instrument. "They'll be done soon, okay? Just…pretend they're not here."

"How can I, when they're using my piano as a coaster?" House jabbed a finger toward a gaggle of uniformed officers, and then seized his thigh again.

Wilson sighed. "It's getting worse, isn't it? Just take another pill."

"Can't you go charm them into leaving it alone?" House barked, one degree away from snapping like a nasty dog on a short leash. "You always manage to somehow make _me_ use a damn coaster, and I didn't even know I owned coasters until you magically suckered me into using one. They're gonna leave coffee rings – "

"Okay!" Wilson interrupted. "Just shut up about it already."

Wilson pushed himself off the desk and strode toward the officers for a short conversation that involved a lot of simpering and bashful smiling. It was incredible how all of that flirtatious crap that always got him into so much trouble with women could end up being so useful against other men. The officers smiled and picked up their travel coffee cups, and then moved toward the kitchen like Wilson had done them a favor by asking them to clear off. One of them even thanked him.

Wilson stomped back to House. "Happy?"

"No. Now half of them want to do you, and the other half are having a sexual identity crisis." House dug the heel of his hand into his scar and glowered around him. Wilson had looked at it while waiting for the cops to arrive; a new bruise had formed near House's knee, so at least it didn't overlay the older injuries. House admitted to wrenching his leg funny, though, to avoid falling on it.

"Dammit, House." Wilson rolled his eyes and then sliced his hand in the direction of House's leg. "Take a damn pill! That's what they're for."

"Funny how you're suddenly such an advocate of my drug habit."

Wilson tried to keep his voice level, but he didn't entirely succeed. "I'm an _advocate_ of a _patient_ using prescribed medication to combat a _medical condition_."

Several officers stopped what they were doing to glance at Wilson and raise eyebrows at his outburst.

House scowled at the officers, then sniped, "I took three while you were outside waving your arms around like an idiot, like the cops couldn't have found the place without you out there to flag them down." He hauled himself to his feet, barely making it upright. "I'm going outside."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House, it's like forty degrees out there." Inside, he worried about the fact that House had now taken at least six Vicodin inside of four hours. And for once, it didn't seem to be an emotional response, though Wilson could have understood if it was. House didn't like people in his apartment, aside from Wilson, and he certainly didn't like cops or vandals, or knowing that some jerks had pawed through all of his stuff.

Over his shoulder, House replied, "Don't worry. Your smothering instinct will keep me warm."

Wilson pursed his lips and then followed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he went. It was one of the coldest Mays he remembered, at least in Princeton. McGill had always been pretty chilly this time of year, though; he recalled wearing turtle necks for most of sophomore year, before he broke down and just carried a sweatshirt all over campus with him. He watched House hobble down the stairs with a little more difficulty than usual, leading with his left foot, six steps to three stairs. It made Wilson frown and his ears caught the distinctive rattle of the pill bottle in House's pocket. House patted his jeans, maybe just to feel it there, but he didn't draw it out.

While House paced on the sidewalk, Wilson stared up at the apartment windows. A police officer ambled into view, looking at the piano, and then he perked up and moved out of sight; someone must have called him off. House's three-legged gait filled up the vacant spaces in the relative silence of the evening, weaving between the shush of traffic and squawks from the police radios in the cars parked along the street. The flashing lights were disorienting; Wilson wondered why cops had to leave all of their emergency beacons on when nothing urgent was occurring. All it did was draw neighbors to their windows like gawking flies at a pastry shop counter.

The flick of a lighter drew Wilson's attention back down, where he found House sitting in the passenger seat of his own beat-up car, which was parked on the street between cop cruisers. He was trying to shelter a cigarette from the wind enough to light it, and Wilson almost snatched the stupid thing away from him. When he approached, House drew back, probably anticipating the same thing, but Wilson's hands had a mind of their own; he cupped them around House's and waited for House to finally light the damn cigarette.

After inhaling long and hard, House plucked the cigarette from his mouth and glanced up at Wilson, wary of this gesture from his cancer-phobic friend. "Thanks." Smoke came out along with the word.

Wilson merely nodded. He supposed he might prefer that House take up smoking again, as opposed to popping extra pills…if it weren't for the secondhand cloud, the smell, and the fact that smoking had probably contributed to the infarction. Stacy had smoked too; she had quit along with House when the doctors had told him he had too, though it didn't stick for her until after she left him. But Wilson didn't want to think about those times, or the similarity in smoking habits.

A few minutes and half a cigarette later, Wilson asked, "Substituting one emotional crutch for another?" He didn't know if he intended for that to be mocking or not. It sounded flat, falling amongst blue and red flickers.

House shrugged. "Oral fixation."

As if that were an acceptable response, Wilson looked at him, and then elbowed around where House sat with his legs hanging all over the curb to rummage in the glove box. A modicum of searching produced a red lollipop, and he replaced the cigarette with it without further conversation. House didn't react other than to tear the wrapping off with his teeth, spit it out, and then shove the sucker in his mouth. For some reason, Wilson went to ruffle House's hair at that, and House recoiled so abruptly that he nearly smacked his head on the door frame. Wilson gazed at the lit cigarette instead and retreated a few steps before taking a drag. It had been a while since he had dared to smoke anything. The last time had probably been a cigar at a hospital benefit, and he'd only puffed at it because a donor had given it to him and expected Wilson to join him in a celebratory smoke. Who the hell celebrates throwing obscene amounts of money at a charity event coffer, anyway?

"Hey, did you know those things cause lung cancer?"

Wilson smiled and contemplated the cigarette. "Damn. Know any good oncologists?"

"Only one," House replied sharply.

Wilson's eyes abandoned the cigarette in favor of staring at House, but House didn't seem to realize that he had just delivered a compliment. Actually, it probably hadn't been a compliment at all; House didn't hand out platitudes, after all. In his mind, it was just a fact that he dispensed as required. Wilson's face softened anyway, and he tossed the cigarette into the gutter without another thought for it. "Thanks, House."

House grunted in response and sucked slobber off of the lollipop. Wilson watched his tongue work it for a while, then pocketed his hands again. He ended up sitting on the hood of House's car, watching the apartment windows and shivering. He wondered why he wasn't more upset over all of this. He was angry; he knew that much. But it was a formless feeling, and he had no object to direct it at. Wilson looked at House past the edge of the open car door, and found him glowering at a pair of police officers standing in the foyer, questioning one of his neighbors. He probably felt the same way Wilson did, though for House, disembodied anger was likely an intrinsic part of his emotional state at any given time. He had a lot to be angry about, but not so much that he should always look so unhappy. That was one thing Wilson couldn't seem to cure him of, though he at least took pride in knowing that he could put a rare, genuine smile on House's face now and then. No one else could boast about that. No one else probably deemed that a worthwhile pastime, though.

A plainclothes officer approached them after about twenty minutes, carrying a notebook. "Mister House?"

House automatically corrected, "Doctor." Wilson often did that too; it had less to do with ego, and more to do with familiarity. _Mister_ Wilson and _Mister _House were simply other people, not them.

The officer deferred with a seamless nod. "Doctor House, I just have a few questions for you. I understand – "

"Tell them to stay the hell away from my piano."

"Um." The officer glanced back at the door, but didn't move to obey. He faced House again and politely informed him, "I'm sorry, Doctor, but we have to dust that for prints too."

House glared at him. "You didn't find prints on the door, the newspaper, the scotch tape, or any of the crap they broke. Do you really think they got stupid enough to just take off their gloves and plant handprints all over the polished lid of my piano? Just for shits and giggles?"

"No," the officer replied. "But it's protocol."

House grumbled something about protocol and where people should stick it, then furiously jammed the remnants of the sucker into his mouth.

Wilson straightened and joined them, programmed to run House interference. "What do you need to know?"

The officer appeared relieved by the interruption. "I'm sorry, sir. You are…?"

"Doctor James Wilson."

"Ah, yes. I've heard your name before." The officer noted that somewhere. "And your relationship to Doctor House?"

"I'm House's, uh…friend. Best friend." The ridiculousness of a forty-four year old man referring to someone as his 'BFF' was not lost on him.

At the officer's dubious look, House pulled the sucker from his mouth with an obnoxious smack and helpfully clarified, "Fuck buddy."

"House!"

"Shut up, Wilson." House mouthed the sucker, and then continued speaking around it. "They'll have noticed all your stuff all over the place anyway. No to mention all the goodies in the bedroom."

Wilson glared over House's head, then turned back to the officer with an annoyed yet tolerant smile. He repeated, "What do you need to know?"

"Hm." The officer noted something else in his little book – Wilson imagined him writing _victim is shtupping his BFF_ – and then he gave Wilson a vacant smile. "I understand you were involved in the incident that occurred with Doctor House's patient?"

Wilson nodded. "Peripherally." Except for the part where the crazy gunman stuffed a loaded pistol against his head and tried to extort his son from House. There was nothing 'peripheral' about that.

The officer noted that too. _BFF downplays seriousness of nearly getting his skull blown off._ Then he glanced over the other notes on his page and asked, "Were either of you aware of Richard Lyamone's criminal activities prior to treating his son?"

House chewed off half the sucker and crunched around it while snarking, "Yeah. We're rival meth kingpins. Couldn't be more happy at getting rid of the competition."

The officer gave him a droll look. "Doctor House, we're here for you. It's to _your_ benefit to cooperate with the investigation."

Before House could purloin any more of the officer's good will, Wilson broke in. "Do you think this is a serious threat? Should he worry about someone coming back?"

House snapped, "They trashed my apartment, moron. Of course they're gonna come back. They're after something."

The officer ignored him and focused on Wilson. "It certainly looks that way, sir. Our best guess right now is that they were looking for money. Lyamone was not working solo, and no cash was found at his home or place of business."

"Street corners are horrible places to hide wads of cash," House put in. Again, the officer ignored him, which didn't seem to faze House at all; he was griping for his own sake at this point.

The officer offered Wilson an apologetic smile. "Whoever he worked with, they probably assume that Doctor House is in possession of their money. These sorts of people won't buy that Doctor House was uninvolved in the drug aspect of Lyamone's life, since Lyamone requested Doctor House specifically. Also, there was some press surrounding Lyamone's arrest at the courthouse. It's likely that they believe Doctor House learned of Lyamone's business and used his son to double-cross him and steal the money."

House twitched and exclaimed, "Oh, come on! That doesn't even make sense. I treated his son. That's _all_ I did! It's not my fault the idiot was too busy trying to get his kid committed to put on a pair of fucking gloves before he played with his second-rate chemistry set."

The officer nodded, again manufacturing some detached brand of uncaring sympathy. "I understand that, Doctor House. Still, there is missing drug money out there somewhere. These sorts of people don't care much for logic; all they know is that you were involved. They figure that if they push you hard enough, you'll tell them where it is. It doesn't occur to them that you might not have any idea that it even exists."

House looked about ready to vent his frustration squarely at the officer, so Wilson intervened yet again. "What should we do, then?"

House muttered, "Tamper with their trunk lab and blow them the fuck up."

The officer almost chuckled at that, but he caught himself. Decorum. "Well, I wouldn't recommend staying here, at least for the time being. Do you have friends or family you could stay with for a few days?"

Wilson shifted, burying his hands deeper in his khakis. "Well, there's my apartment. It's across town, so – "

"I am not sleeping in Amber cooties."

"House, can't you just shut up for a minute?"

House shot daggers at the space between Wilson and the officer, then proceeded to masticate the sucker stick.

"Actually," the officer said, "you should try to avoid your own apartment too. Your name was also in the papers; they may go looking for you there. We already have a patrol in the area to keep an eye on the place." He cast a curious glance from Wilson to House, then back again. "A hotel would be advisable; we can get you checked in under an assumed name. Or else, out of town relatives. Would someone put you up for a week or so?"

Wilson started to reply, but House cut him off. "He has patients – important doctor stuff. He can't just take a week's leave without notice."

"Yeah," Wilson nodded, his best smile out for the sake of damage control. "But a hotel would work."

"Very good." The officer nodded, then turned to House. "Doctor, if you'd like to put an overnight bag together, we can escort you and your…friend to a hotel."

"Fuck buddy," House amended.

"Whatever you say, sir." He glanced at his notes and underlined something. Wilson imagined it to read _fuck buddy_ now. "Just a few more questions before we wrap it up here. Can you go over your activities again for this evening, just to confirm?"

Wilson reiterated what time they left the hospital, that they drove separately to House's apartment so that House only had one vehicle hogging parking spaces at PPTH; how Wilson had changed into bowling attire, and how House had mocked his bowling shirt and refused to leave with him until he traded it for a polo. Wilson omitted the reason they ended up coming back home so soon, thankful that they had at least taken long enough not to walk in on the vandals. Some twisted sort of providence had tripped House with a bowling ball, forcing Wilson into a circuitous route home just to remain on smooth pavement. House snarked a few times, made an unnecessary observation about police officers in general, and somehow avoided getting arrested for making a public nuisance of himself. Wilson glossed over everything House said with a sheepish smile, his hair flopping into his eyes on purpose, and then the officer walked off to do something-or-other.

If looks could kill, House would have fried the cop on the spot. "Why don't you just offer to blow him," House snapped. "The flirting couldn't be more obvious."

"If you could learn to be civil, I wouldn't have to flirt to keep the peace."

A few minutes later, some other person came out to tell them that they could go inside and retrieve whatever they would need for the next few days, and Wilson left House pouting in his car with a soggy sucker stick for company, begging him to either be nice or stay silent until he got back. Wilson packed bags for both of them, taking extra care to fill House's backpack with anything and everything that House might want to distract himself from his own head. They ended up trailing a police car to the interstate, and then ironically into the parking lot of the same hotel that Wilson had lived in for a year. House smirked at that, but otherwise kept quiet beside Wilson.

They checked in with an officer's help, and Wilson wondered how in hell he and House were supposed to remain inconspicuous with a conspicuous police escort and a uniformed check-in buddy. In the end, he didn't really care; this hotel had excellent security and a guard manning the door. All Wilson stipulated was _not_ getting the same room he had once wasted a fortune renting. He expected House to insist on the most expensive suite possible, just to be a jerk, but when they all ambled into the lobby, House fell into an arm chair near the window and stayed there while Wilson and the cop arranged everything.

It felt like forever before they finally keyed into the room, and Wilson shut the door behind him, letting out a long breath that he had apparently been holding for hours. Everything smelled like hotel – industrial carpet shampoo, industrial chemical cleansers, a hint of bleach and starch, old wallpaper and cheap sawdust furniture, plus a pleasant moist scent that wafted out from the bathroom. All hotel rooms smelled the same, so at least it didn't feel too strange. Far away in the darkness, House clicked on a lamp and then flopped back onto one of two queen-sized beds. Wilson hadn't felt like explaining to the clerk why two grown men only needed one bed.

Wilson shuffled forward and dumped their bags on the other bed. House hadn't bothered to carry a damn thing, but Wilson didn't fault him for it for once; by the time they had reached the elevators, House had been beyond the ability to hide how he could barely keep himself upright. Wilson flexed his elbows back to stretch out his spine, watching as House dragged his bad leg up onto the bed with both hands and then curled around it. He still had his cane hooked over his elbow, and it looked a bit like he was hugging it in the absence of a stuffed animal. Once House got relatively close to a comfortable position, he just stopped moving.

Wilson observed the rapid pace at which his ribcage expanded and contracted, then bit back an obscenity because he didn't want House to mistake his anger for some convoluted brand of pity or condescension. Instead, Wilson quietly went about unpacking what few things they would need for the evening, aiming for a quick and painless transition to sleep. It was nearly one in the morning already, and they both needed to work the next day despite it being Saturday, House more than usual since he had a patient. As it was, they would probably be going in late. Wilson only had a few morning appointments, so he had the rare liberty of cutting out early for a nap, but House would likely elect to stay all day, though he would never admit that he gave a damn about putting in a reasonable number of working hours. It was just one of those things that Wilson had only noticed after they got together; House stayed late in his office more often than Wilson, and not just to make up for coming in after ten every morning.

"House?" Wilson approached the bed he had taken over and poked House's good ankle, which was hanging off the edge. When House leaned his head back to look up at Wilson, Wilson dangled a pair of sleep pants over his nose. "Come on. You know it's a bad idea to sleep in those jeans. They're tight in all the wrong places."

House grunted and rolled back to his original position. "I thought you liked these jeans."

Wilson tipped his head to one side, then smirked off toward the corner of the room. It was true, though he hadn't thought that House either noticed or cared that whenever Wilson got a chance to lay out House's clothes, he picked out that pair. Honestly, Wilson had never meant for him to catch on because it just seemed such a strange sentiment between two men, intimate or not. "That's hardly the point."

"Mm." House didn't appear all that interested in banter or innuendo, or even staying awake at this point. Although, that last bit was probably a farce; House's natural state was wide awake even when exhausted. He simply liked to fake otherwise – Wilson had no idea why.

Wilson's forced cheer bled off in the sterile atmosphere of the utilitarian room. In the hopes of combating the bleak feeling that hotels had left him with ever since kidding himself into calling one home, Wilson sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a few fingers up House's arm. He needed the contact of someone who he hoped still loved him. And it _was_ only hope right now because he honestly didn't know anymore.

House's muscles twitched under the pads of Wilson's fingers, though House quelled the slow squirm that had started up in their wakes. "Wilson…" It was some sort of warning, though too uneasy to be called a threat.

Wilson retracted his hand. "I'm gonna take a shower, okay? You need anything?"

"Expensive scotch."

"Hmph." Wilson smiled, though he felt rather sad to think that House's first choice of comfort was alcohol, and not human contact. "If you empty the mini-bar, I'm gonna get Cuddy to take it out of your next paycheck." As an afterthought, he extracted the cane from House's grip.

"Okay, I may not have been clear enough." House allowed him to take the cane away, following it with his eyes as Wilson propped it against the nightstand, well within reach. "What I really meant to say was _good_ scotch. Whatever crap they're stocking here, it's _way_ overpriced. I know, cuz I raided your mini-bar when you lived here."

Wilson patted his ankle and then stood up. "Whatever, House. Just don't drown yourself."

"Wasn't planning on it," House mumbled, his face pressed into the bed. "M'tired."

Wilson stood there looking at him for a moment, his hands on his hips like an avenging angel. For once, House didn't notice intent eyes on him, and Wilson sucked in a weary breath. "Yeah," Wilson sighed. He carded his fingers back through his hair as he ambled away, snatching his bag on the way to the bathroom. "I won't be long."

"Mm."

By the time Wilson came back out, clad in sleep pants and a light undershirt, House was fast asleep – a little twitchy, but down for the count. A genuine smile graced Wilson's face at that; House needed the rest, and though he looked a little uncomfortable half-sprawled on his left side with one leg hanging off the bed, he still looked more relaxed than he ever looked while awake.

Loath to risk disturbing him, Wilson cleared off the second bed and rolled himself onto his back, his fingers laced behind his head, flexing his toes just because stretching out felt good. He expected sleep to come quickly, but it didn't. The shush and hum of the air conditioner muffled the room so much that he couldn't hear House breathing on the next bed; it was strangely disorienting. The chill air smelled of recycled coolant, clean yet impersonal; he had tried to switch it to blow warm air, but slightly tepid seemed the best it could do. And there was no annoying sound of a dripping faucet filtering in from down the hall. Everything just felt so…not like home.

Wilson rolled onto his side and blinked at the table lamp that glowed next to him, then past that to where House lay looking peaceful. He could see House's ribcage balloon with each inhalation, but in the absence of sound – breath sloughing through slightly parted lips, a soft rumble deep in his lungs – it was like watching a movie with the sound off. Surreal. This wasn't going to work, Wilson realized. He was buzzed from being up too late, from finding that his happy little corner of the world had taken another tumble. There was no way he would be able to sleep tonight.

Wilson rolled his eyes and flopped onto his back with a loud sigh, then groaned under his breath as he pushed himself upright. He extended a foot to snag the strap on his briefcase, then dragged it close enough to grab it and haul it up onto the bed. He didn't really want to work, but the television would wake House up no matter how far he turned the volume down, and reading would just annoy him. Besides, he had no books with him, and House only had a few medical journals, only one of which was in English. Wilson resolved himself to a lonely night of playing catch-up with departmental budget reports, and slid his laptop out. A few folders and random pieces of paper got dislodged along with it, and Wilson pursed his lips as he collected them up and shoved them back into his bag.

One small square of white caught his eye, though, and he plucked it out from between patient notes because he was pretty sure it didn't belong there. When he recognized it as a script, he scowled because he had no idea which file it went with. He turned it over to see if it was filled out already, and then stopped. It wasn't from Wilson's pad; House had written it. Wilson frowned and leaned closer to the light in the hopes of deciphering House's chicken scratch. It took a second to sink in, and then Wilson froze.

_Patient: James Evan Wilson, most annoying J.E.W. alive_

_Medication: mock-free hugs_

_Quantity: 120_

_Refills: 12_

_Dosage: take one every 6 hours until melancholia subsides_

Wilson blinked back some ambiguous emotion. It was ridiculous and cheesy – a year's worth of hugs, no strings attached. His eyes sought out the date and then his stomach dropped: just this past Tuesday. The day House said he had come looking for Wilson at Amber's apartment. The day Wilson had gone off and gotten so shit-faced that he didn't even know what he did that night.

Wilson bit his lip before he realized what he felt, and then something hot trickled down the crease of his nose, on one side only. He blinked furiously as his eyes unfocused. Over the top of the script, he could see the blurred lump on the other bed that comprised House. He must have actually gone into Wilson's apartment that night; he had a key. He probably didn't even realize that Wilson never found the script. At the time, he had probably figured that since Wilson was anal about his patients, he would be on his laptop that very night, and that the script would fall out, and Wilson would read it and smile.

That jerk. He had fucking gone and done something romantic, and Wilson hadn't even noticed. No wonder House was so pissed when Wilson just stood outside his office staring at him; he had been hoping that Wilson had come to 'fill' the stupid script, and when nothing happened, he had felt like a damn fool.

Wilson was standing before his brain even registered the intent to move, and then he burrowed his way under House's arm and crawled into bed with him. House started awake, woozy from sleep and completely bewildered as his best friend tunneled in against him. "Whadafuck? Wilson, wuzza matter?"

"You wrote me a script." Wilson's voice cracked, and it occurred to him that he was crying. Very manly. He squeaked, "You _ass_hole!" But he clutched at House's shirt as he said it, his arm cinched over House's side.

House made a puzzled sound while he forced his brain to unravel that, and then he snorted. "Moron." It sounded fond, though, and he returned the embrace, awkward but there. He tucked Wilson's head under his chin, and Wilson felt House's jaw bob against the top of his skull when House spoke. "I should warn you: side effects include runny nose and emasculation, and if you overdose, you turn into a girl."

Wilson laughed wetly into House's shirt. "God, I hate you sometimes."

"Hey – emotional dependence on drugs is a sign of addiction."

"Shut up, jerk. The script said no mocking."

House humphed into Wilson's hair, bemused, and let himself be used as a tissue. Wilson tried to pull him closer, but there was no room, so he dragged House's bad leg up over his hip and shimmied in against him, shoving his right leg between House's and hooking it around House's good one just in case Wilson might need to keep him there by force. It proved unnecessary since all House did was firm up his grip around Wilson's torso and squeeze every now and then, his hand splayed over Wilson's dorsal ribcage, fingers lightly scratching inscrutable patterns on Wilson's t-shirt. It was unusual and wonderful, and slightly unnerving to be voluntarily cuddled, but Wilson endured it because he wanted it, and he had no idea how long House would consent to let him have it.

After a few minutes, House predictably squirmed a bit, but then he shifted with an embarrassed, "Um."

It took Wilson a moment to place that particular brand of syllable, and then he chuckled into House's chest. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm pretty sure you'll be getting some tonight."

"Oh, good," House chirped as if Wilson had just announced pizza for dinner. He pressed himself back up against Wilson and resumed rubbing his back.

Wilson noticed the subtle change in the angle of House's hips and rolled his eyes. He could feel a slight hardness nudging his abdomen.

As if he could tell that Wilson's eyes were rolling just by the set of his shoulders, House placed his lips in Wilson's hair and smirked. "Hey, all I promised was no mocking. Didn't say anything about keeping Mister Greggles in check."

"Funny, but I distinctly recall a hint of mockery in the recitation of side effects." Wilson crooked his leg tighter around House's and pushed against him. "And seriously – Mister Greggles? It makes your penis sound like a sock puppet."

House started to retort, but he choked over a snort instead and ended up laughing softly. "Just for that, yours is gonna be Slim Jim from now on."

"Mm." Wilson tilted his face up to nuzzle at House's throat. "Which flavor?" He could feel the distilled warmth puddling in his groin and silently thanked his foresight in ditching the extra meds.

House grunted as Wilson rubbed more forcefully against him, then ducked down to capture his mouth briefly. "Tobasco," he replied, his voice turning husky mid-word. He pecked Wilson on the lips again and then grinned like a dope. "So hot I can hardly stand it."

Wilson rolled his eyes at the cheesy response. "You're hopeless."

"Seriously?" House arched and dragged Wilson flush against him. "Cuz it seems like it worked."

"Unreported side effect of the script you wrote me."

"It's still in the trial stage. Might not function as intended."

"Mm. I'm gonna file a complaint with the manufacturer as soon as I'm done here." Wilson silenced any further banter by properly crushing their lips together.

House tried to say something else, but it got lost in a tangle of tongues and came out as, "Mrp." Wilson moved his hand up between House's shoulder blades and pressed their chests together, feeling languid, as if he were already sated. Then House set his good foot and rolled them, and the breath fled Wilson's lungs for a moment as House ended up half on top of him. It wasn't nearly enough, so while House's tongue plunged into his mouth and whiskers scraped his lips, Wilson groped for House's leg and urged him the rest of the way over, curling his fingernails in the rear crease of House's thigh to make his wishes known. House slid further to the right and Wilson spread his legs so that House could settle between them, but Wilson maintained his grip on House's right ass cheek and started to tug in a broken rhythm. House took the hint and slowly rolled his hips, the pattern lazy and irregular, just an occasional press-rub of clothed erections – coarse denim over thin, pliant flannel. For several minutes, no sounds reached Wilson's ears aside from their deepening respirations and an occasional rustle of fabric or creaking bedsprings when one of them changed angles or repositioned themselves.

After a while, the kisses tapered off and House buried his face in Wilson's neck with a contented sigh. He settled more of his weight over Wilson's body and a few minutes later, his breathing evened out. Wilson thought that House might actually be falling asleep on him, if not for the continued rocking. Wilson was hard but not aching, which was a nice change from the extreme on/off that usually gripped them. It didn't have to progress, but Wilson wanted it to. He couldn't tell how much House might be into it, though; the front of his jeans dug in against Wilson's loose sleep pants, delicious pressure against Wilson's cock, but the constricting fabric left Wilson wondering if House's response were halfhearted or just too firmly confined. Either way, Wilson decided that House couldn't possibly be comfortable, so he murmured something indistinct and braced his palms against House's chest to get him to lift off a little.

House grunted and pulled his face away, then levered himself up so that Wilson could get his hands between them. He worked House's belt open amidst a fresh smattering of chaste kisses, then clawed the button free and tore the zipper down. House reset his knees, canted to the left, and chased Wilson's lips with his own until they were sealed together again. Wilson flattened his palm over the front of House's boxers and then grinned against House's teeth. There was nothing halfhearted down there, and House responded to the touch by shoving his hips into Wilson's hand and snaking his tongue farther into Wilson's mouth.

Wilson pulled him back down and House proceeded to rub himself harder against Wilson's crotch, almost proper thrusts, until an elongated grunt escaped his locked throat. Wilson laughed softly because it had been far too long since he had heard that sound, and he carded his fingers through House's hair. House shoved his arms under Wilson's shoulders and crushed him in place, moving his mouth around behind Wilson's ear, and then he sucked harder than usual. Wilson arched and bared his neck even though he knew what House was doing, but he didn't care about the mark for once. House's pelvis stuttered and then he ground himself down and added teeth to the patch of skin suctioned under his lips.

"Mm – hmm." Wilson set a foot flat on the mattress and pushed his hips up, his skin tingling where House suckled. And then to his own surprise, he grasped a fistful of House's hair to hold his mouth in place before he gasped, "Harder."

House blew a startled breath out against Wilson's neck, stirring his hair, and then he pulled back. "Not there."

"I don't care," Wilson whined. He refused to release House's hair and tried in vain to force his mouth back to his neck. Wilson's voice had gone all pitchy and soft, and he added, "People can stare – doesn't matter."

House twisted his head free and moved down Wilson's body before Wilson could stop him. "You'll bitch in the morning." It wasn't a total rejection, though; House shoved Wilson's t-shirt up and mouthed a jagged line down the center of Wilson's chest, peppering his skin with a combination of light kisses and openmouthed nips.

Wilson flexed into the stimuli and labored up onto his elbows to watch as House reached his abdomen. House teased his waistline, nudging at the elastic band of the flannel pants with his nose, and then he hooked his fingers into the fabric and pulled one side down. Wilson felt the elastic chafe against his erection, but House didn't expose his cock; he nuzzled his way down Wilson's hip, and then sank his teeth into the soft flesh between the hollow of his hipbone and the crease of his thigh. Wilson groaned and arched into the sharpness, throwing his head back, as House milked his flesh and all but gnawed on him, sucking hard the whole time. The singularly obscene sound of moist suckling reached Wilson's ears along with tiny _mm_'s that vibrated against Wilson's skin.

Wilson started to roll his eyes when House left off, and then he shut them as House fumbled his cock out of the sleep pants and very nearly swallowed it whole. Wilson's eyes flew back open and he gaped at the ceiling, his lungs frozen for a moment in unexpected ecstasy. Thank god, he'd ditched the meds. "Ahh_hoh_ – god…" Wilson slid off his elbows and gathered up handfuls of the cheap hotel comforter, his legs opening wider with only the barest of thought. Wilson made a sound like he was being strangled and tried to wrap his leg over House's shoulders, but House shoved his thigh off and then leaned on it. Then he dove down and swallowed, rapid-fire contractions of his throat, and Wilson bucked before he could summon the sense of mind to seize House's hair and drag him off.

House's lips slid from his cock with a lewd pop, and then he clambered up Wilson's body, clumsy with arousal, to attack his mouth. Wilson could taste himself on House's tongue, which should have been a turn-off since he hated the bitterness, but it had the opposite effect for once. The muscles rippled in House's upper back as he folded over Wilson's body, and Wilson felt his blood burn as it raced southward, all of his breath lost to House's frantic attempt to lick Wilson's tonsils. A lurid moan got smothered between them – Wilson wasn't sure whose. House had shoved his good thigh up under Wilson's, and Wilson hitched his leg over House's hip to hold him down.

They were both moving against each other now, rubbing and squirming, and panting in a desperate bid to breathe just so that they wouldn't pass out and lose this. Wilson felt himself flush from nape to navel, and it took him a moment to realize that House was trying to shrug out of his button-down. Wilson brushed it off House's shoulders and then tugged it from one arm. That was good enough. He grabbed House's face in both hands and fought to turn the tables, forcing House's tongue back into his own mouth and then following it past House's teeth. House grunted and Wilson saw his nostrils flare, and then a strange sort of choked sound fell from House's lips before he whimpered and reached down to grab the leg that Wilson had slung over him. His fingers dug into the back of Wilson's thigh and then House kneaded his way higher, until his hand was wrapped around Wilson's ass cheek, the tip of a finger teasing his opening.

Wilson broke the kiss to fling his head back and arch his spine, and he grabbed the seat of House's pants in both hands, pushing down to increase the pressure. House made an eager sound and dry humped him hard enough to rock the bed, breathing loud and sharp in Wilson's ear, the fingers of one hand clenching rhythmically around Wilson's ass, his other hand braced on the mattress near Wilson's shoulder with his button-down still stuck around his wrist. Wilson glanced at it, then bit his lip as the pleasure escalated, tendons standing out against his neck. House's head hung low between his shoulders, his eyes closed and crinkled at the edges, exhaling humid air against Wilson's throat as he thrust. Sweet tension strummed both their bodies, sweat lending a faint sheen to their exposed skin, and the damp fabric of House's boxers burned as it moved against Wilson's bare length.

Heat flooded through Wilson's body, suffocating him, and he realized that if they didn't stop soon, he would come like this, which was mostly fine, except there were too many clothes in the equation. Wilson fumbled around until he found the hem of House's t-shirt, and then he stripped it off, breaking the rhythm for a moment. House returned the favor and then his mouth was all over Wilson's neck, too aroused to be of much use, and Wilson grunted in frustration when he tried to shove House's jeans down past his hips. With an exasperated groan, Wilson tipped him off, amused by the completely dumbfounded look on House's face as he toppled over onto his back. House's pelvis twitched a few more times before he could stop himself, and then he blinked stupidly up at Wilson, panting as he came back from the brink.

Wilson kicked his pants off the rest of the way, then rolled up onto his knees to get at House's. It took some doing – House was barely lucid enough to help without getting his hands in the way – and then Wilson kneed him over onto his side and spooned up behind him, shoving his right arm between House and the mattress to better hang onto him.

House purred and wriggled back against him, and Wilson rubbed his cock into the cleft of House's ass, which felt divine and heated and almost overwhelming. His hand drifted to caress House's cock and it occurred to him, as House shuddered and arched his back, that Wilson didn't know if he'd brought any lube.

"God, don't stop," House moaned, his voice all soft and about an octave higher than normal. He tried to shove into Wilson's grip but Wilson let go and snagged at House's hand so that he couldn't touch either. House groaned into the rumpled bedspread. "Not nice."

"Lube," Wilson gasped; he was too busy cinching an arm across House's midsection to breathe properly. Once he had a firm enough grip, Wilson held him in place ground his pelvis forward. In the mean time, Wilson's lips had wandered up the side of House's neck, and he let his mouth go lax, panting into House's skin.

House squirmed back against him. "Complimentary lotion. Come _on_, Wilson."

"Mmph." Wilson swallowed a few times with his lips pressed to House's shoulder because he was way too close and the way House was rubbing his ass all over Wilson's cock wasn't helping. "Stop a minute. Stop – "

House shuddered and choked out a moan, and that was pretty much all Wilson could take. He clutched at any part of House that his hands could find and gave a strangled cry as the fire overwhelmed him.

"Wilson…_fuck_…fingernails…"

"Nnngh…" Wilson shuddered, his every muscle seizing, awash in a dull ache that throbbed through his veins. He curled around House and quaked, his leg hooked over House's hip, and then it hit him hard. He clamped his teeth over whatever was available, and it almost hurt, almost, because he wasn't ready for it, and his hands scrabbled for a handhold until House's fingers closed around them, and then he threw his head back, a guttural moan stuck in a wheeze, he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, toes curling, chest heaving in the absence of air, and then nothing. Blinding white nothing.

"Wilson?…Jesus, fuck – hey! Wilson."

"Umbvv…"

House laughed somewhere off in the haze. "You dweeb."

"Ah, god." Wilson blinked and his vision swam, distorting House's shit-eating grin, which hovered above him. He could still feel tremors and spikes, and his body ticked in the aftermath, overheated, blood thumping in his ears to drown out all else, spine flexed.

House looked positively gleeful. "That wasn't even _real_ sex! You're such a lightweight."

Wilson tried to glare, but he was pretty sure he merely looked stupid. "Two weeks, asshole."

"Aw." House put on his mock-sympathetic face. "You been saving up all that tension? Hey, lookit." He twisted and displayed a neat line of red fingernail marks between two ribs. "You marked me." House seemed way too proud of that fact as he contorted himself to get a better view of the series of little red crescents. "I'm gonna tell Cuddy you're totally abusing me." He tossed Wilson his most innocent little boy look. "I think I'm scared."

Wilson squinted at him. "Fuck you."

House shrugged, bemused. "I kinda tried to, but no – little Jimmy just couldn't wait."

Wilson pursed his lips, then craned his neck to check House out. "Well, if I'm such a terrifying pervert taking shameless advantage of you, then I probably shouldn't touch that, should I. Might make my case worse."

"Hey, that's so not fair." House stuck his lip out and pouted. "Not my fault you lost all impulse control."

Wilson lumbered up onto his elbows. "That's how it's gonna be?"

"Yeah…" House narrowed his eyes. "Wait, why? What are you thinking?"

Wilson was thinking that House looked nearly edible, and his lips quirked.

House drew his head back and let his eyes flicker to the side for a second. Then he demanded, "What?!"

"You're cute when you get all discombobulated."

House pulled a face. "Six syllable word; that's kind of impressive. But I categorically object to being called 'cute.'"

Wilson lunged and House ended up splayed out on his back with a startled, "Oomph!" Then he made some sort of garbled exclamation as Wilson pinned his hands to the mattress and straddled him.

"You want impressive?"

House's eyes grew wide. "What are you gonna do?"

Wilson put on his best beguiling smile, which only made House squint, and then he shifted to let House's cock settle in the cleft of his ass. House tensed and scrunched his face as he arched, a completely instinctive response, and Wilson started to roll his hips. "I think I'm gonna molest you."

"This running gag is getting sorta creepy," House remarked, but he set his left foot flat on the bed and rose up to meet him. "Mmm…my back's sticking to the blanket."

"Poor you." Wilson was still breathing hard so soon after his own release, and he huffed warm breath in House's face. "You know, House – "

"Stop talking!" House gasped. He tried to free his hands but Wilson leaned harder, and a shudder coursed through his body. "God, shut up."

Wilson quirked an eyebrow but obediently shut his mouth. He also spread his legs to rest more of his weight across House's body, trapping his hips against the mattress, and quickened the tempo, sharp and fast, clamping his ass cheeks around House's cock.

House's spine curved away from the bed and he let out a succulent moan, tapering off at the end until he coughed and then had to gulp in a fresh lungful. "God…" he panted, breathless. "God…"

Wilson persisted until House was writhing and struggling to thrust, his head digging back into the mattress, pulling against the restraint offered by Wilson's hands. Wilson watched his abdominal muscles clench and ground himself down harder, ducking his head just as House reared up and opened his eyes again.

House flinched under him. "Hah… Fuck, sorry."

Wilson jerked back. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, I'm fine." He clamped his eyes shut again to focus on the sensation of Wilson rubbing back and forth against him, and then he just blurted out, "Fuck me."

Wilson paused on top of him. "What?"

"I want you to fuck me." House took a shuddering breath, his hips tilting up. "God, just…Wilson…"

"I…can't." Incredulous, Wilson looked down at himself and then shook his head, helpless.

"_Please_, I want you to fuck me." House squirmed back against the bedcovers, his hands balling around fists of air, and then his breath caught around a deep-chested moan.

Wilson settled back on his knees after being jostled and tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. House was never insistent like this – not verbally, anyway – but for the most part, Wilson didn't find himself in the position of coming first and leaving House so far behind. It was unsettling; he actually felt like crap for it, and that was ridiculous. In fact, he'd _never_ been in this position; he strove not to find himself here. "House – "

"Please, please…Wilson, please…"

Listening to House beg like that, completely out of it and lost in some idea in his head, it occurred to Wilson that maybe this wasn't actually about sex anymore. Somebody had broken into House's apartment, threatened him for something beyond his ability to control, rifled through the contents of his life – touched his piano, Wilson thought with a smirk… House might never admit it, or even recognize the emotion, but he had to be feeling vulnerable and exposed, way outside of his comfort zone, sleeping in a hotel, cornered… He wasn't trying to put pressure on Wilson; he just needed to feel something familiar. Something safe. And he didn't know where else to look for it, except in this.

Wilson scrambled off to one side and dragged House up by his forearms, almost amused by the perfectly confounded, bleary stare that House fixed on him. Wilson didn't bother saying anything because he didn't want House to take Wilson's solicitations the wrong way – what House referred to as Wilson 'talking things to death.' He merely manhandled House up onto his knees and then got behind him to hold him in place. "Is your leg okay like this?"

House cast a reflexive look down at his thigh and sort of shrugged, like he couldn't figure out why Wilson was asking.

Wilson rolled his eyes; House was too far gone to really protest anyway. "Okay then. Tell me if it's not."

"Why?"

"Because you're a temperamental bastard." Wilson nuzzled his neck to offset that.

House only barely tensed. "What are you – "

"Shut up unless you want me to stop."

"Oh." His eyebrows crinkled, but he leaned back against Wilson's chest.

Wilson parroted, "Oh," and embraced him from behind. "And don't touch."

House started to say something, then shook his head and tried to relax, one hand braced on the mattress in front of him. He still seemed confused. Wilson ran his palm down House's arm and plucked his hand off the comforter, pulling him back so he was forced to let Wilson support him on the right side. That made House open his mouth again, but he closed it a second later and merely shifted to sit on his heels. Wilson tugged him more firmly back and stole a peek over House's shoulder, a straight-line view down to his still hard cock jutting out from a sparse nest of graying pubic hair.

"Hmph." Wilson smirked and turned his face into House's neck. House bared his throat for him and sighed when Wilson suckled lightly over his pulse point. It soon became apparent that House had no idea what to do with his hands, what with the prohibition on touching and no need to brace himself, so Wilson's eyes wandered until his gaze alit on House's jeans on the floor, the belt still caught in the loops. He hesitated, then slid his lips down a tendon in House's neck and off the tip of his shoulder. Then he leaned over the side of the bed and snagged the jeans.

House looked to find out what he was doing, and then he twisted to see Wilson's face, a silent question sketched into the V between his eyebrows.

Wilson gazed back as he slid the belt free and held it up for inspection. "This okay?"

A flash of something inscrutable crossed House's face, and Wilson wondered if maybe he shouldn't have asked first. House shrugged; the ambiguity didn't set well with Wilson, but he knew House pretty well by now, so he decided to go with it. Still, some tiny niggling part of his brain was asking him if he thought House capable of saying no to him in this context. Wilson ignored it only because stopping now would seem like a backhanded insult to House. Coddling the weak – the worst offense anyone could give.

Wilson grabbed House's wrists and crossed them over his chest, then locked them in place with the belt. It barely reached all the way around House's back, but Wilson got it buckled, perhaps a little too tightly. House didn't seem to mind it, though; he had shut his eyes and bowed his head, just waiting, his breathing slow and deep, if a little uneven. Wilson crawled back behind him and hugged him close, his chin hooked over House's shoulder. When House didn't respond, either to stiffen or to sink back, Wilson risked asking, "Is this better?"

"Yeah." House's voice wavered, low and airy, but not enough to call attention to it. His respirations were already falling off kilter, though, and Wilson wavered over the meaning of the look he cast at the ceiling.

"House?"

House kept on panting, not moving other than to breathe, his lips slightly parted and his eyes lidded.

"Hey." Wilson rubbed his hand over House's breastbone to try to draw him back to the moment. "You okay?"

"Mm." House swallowed hard and ducked his head to the left, maybe to hide from Wilson's gaze. "Good," he gasped. "M'good."

Doubtful, Wilson started to draw away, but House leaned back to maintain contact, so Wilson stopped retreating. He gathered House to him and scooted forward, and House widened his stance so that Wilson could fit his knees between House's calves, House all but sitting on Wilson's thighs. It was…intimate. And it felt weird.

Wilson tried to remain relaxed, but it seemed a losing battle, what with House just sitting there, tied up with his own belt and so clearly aroused by the fact. Wilson wondered what House expected him to do next, or if he could think at all beyond this point. Was this like…plateau stage for him? Or maybe there was no next step, and this _was_ the end point. Wilson had no idea, and he didn't think that House was exactly in a mind frame to explain it to him, as if he ever would be.

Wilson needed to do something. He couldn't just stay like this in silence; it was creeping him out something fierce. So he locked his right arm over House's chest, covering his already restrained arms, and kneaded House's hip and good thigh with his left hand, pausing now and then to lightly scrape his fingernails up House's inner thigh or rub circles between his stomach and groin, experimenting.

House panted harder and made absolutely certain that Wilson couldn't see his face, his nose practically buried in his left bicep. Wilson could feel each hot exhalation bathe his fingers where he gripped House's opposite arm in his right hand, and it startled him when House flexed his back with a whispery moan. Wilson covered for it by mouthing House's neck and shoulder, his left hand migrating inward.

House threw his head back, his bottom lips caught fast between his teeth, chest heaving. And he was whimpering, feverishly trying to hold himself still when he obviously wanted to shove his hips against Wilson's hand. He couldn't stop squirming, his stomach clenching and the muscles quivering in his legs.

This, at least, Wilson could deal with. He knew how to handle this aspect of whatever the hell they were doing; it seemed more natural, teasing and playing to bring someone off. The rest of it just didn't make sense to him – it didn't jive. So he stilled House's barely contained energy by simply grasping his cock. House seized and grunted, and Wilson had to drag him back into position with the arm over his chest. "Shh…calm down, House."

"Mm_ngh_. Please…"

"Shh." Wilson kissed his neck, and then that spot behind his ear. "Just let me." He brushed his thumb over House's tip and spread the precum that he found there, first circling and then teasing the slit.

House gulped back something that sounded suspiciously like a sob, and Wilson craned his neck to catch a glimpse of his face, alarmed. House looked either ecstatic or in agony, or on the verge of tears. "Wilson, please…please…" House was speaking so softly that Wilson could barely hear him, and those two words seemed to be all he was capable of repeating at the moment, like a private mantra.

"Hey. You're okay, right?"

House moaned low in the back of his throat and clamped his teeth over his bottom lip. Wilson brushed his knuckled over House's cheek, expecting him to pull away, but House leaned into the touch and ended up nuzzling Wilson's palm. It only lasted a second, though; as soon as House realized what he was doing, he flung his head away and tried to stifle a whimper against his shoulder. While Wilson murmured vague reassurances into House's ear, he also experimented with a few languid strokes up and down House's length, swirling his wrist at the head before squeezing for the trip back down. House fought not to make a sound as he jogged his hips to prolong contact.

"Don't move," Wilson admonished. He paused to spit in his hand – which was disgusting, really – and then he ran his palm up House's cock from base to tip, pressing it against House's stomach and then caressing the underside.

House made an incredulous sound and blinked at the ceiling, still mouthing _please_ and _Wilson_ though the words were no longer audible. Wilson wondered if he knew he was doing it. Just because it seemed warranted, Wilson curled his right hand around House's fingers, gratified when House chose to hang on. With a curious sense of control, Wilson bent his head to nick his teeth over House's shoulder, and then he bit and sped up his hand at the same time.

House choked on his own tongue and then curled forward, forcing Wilson to let go of his fingers and catch him up around his midsection instead. "…_hnnnn…_" He ran out of breath and coughed, and then flung his head back, abdomen clenched hard enough to pull them both forward. "Nnghh…_mph_!" Wilson nearly toppled over on top of him, but he regained his balance at the last second and dragged House back up, molding them together back-to-front, his hand working furiously along the length of House's cock. House gulped for air and wheezed like a fish out of water, writhing in Wilson's grip, his arm muscles bunching within the confines of the belt.

"Come on, House." The eager words were out before Wilson registered how much this was turning him on. "Come. Come on, come."

House croaked out some wordless syllable and then hiccupped in the middle of a shallow breath, his teeth clenched.

"Come, yeah," Wilson encouraged. He laved his tongue over the reddening mark he had left on House's shoulder, then moved to the juncture of his neck and bit there too.

House cried out and tried to shove his face into his bound arms. Wilson squeezed him tighter and kept his hand moving amidst House's frantic squirms, leather squeaking as he struggled against the belt. If it weren't for the position they were in, he would have been thrashing on the bed, tossing his head from side to side, desperate to move his hips and shove himself into Wilson's fist.

Wilson crushed him close, holding him down in the curve of his body, trapped beneath arm and teeth and hand. He milked the flesh in his mouth, brutal, sucking blood to the surface, bruising, but House was so close, it was fucking beautiful. Wilson was mumbling something to that effect, in fact, but his mouth was otherwise engaged and it sounded like nonsense. And he was hard again.

Wilson detached his teeth and stopped stroking, circling his fingers around House's base instead to freeze everything. Even though the words tasted strange on his tongue, Wilson asked, "Can I still fuck you?"

House shuddered, too high on endorphins to answer right away, then growled in frustrated need. His voice came out hoarse and strained, fractured in three different ranges when he stammered, "Yes, yes – god, yes, please, Wilson, please..."

Wilson struggled to disentangle himself, muttering, "…hot…" under his breath as he scrambled back and shot to the hotel table where the little complimentary lotions beckoned. He seriously doubted that many patrons used these things to moisturize hands. When he clambered back onto the bed, House was hunched over his lap, breathing hard, his hands balled into fists against his clavicle. Wilson rested a palm between House's shoulder blades and snapped the lotion open with his other hand. "You still okay?"

House grunted and wheezed, "Better than."

Wilson squeezed out a dollop of lotion one-handed, more dexterous than hormones usually allowed, and then tossed the bottle aside. "Your leg?"

"What leg?"

Wilson grinned and smeared the lotion up and down House's crack. House shivered in anticipation and then clenched as Wilson's finger breached him. "You have to breathe, House." It was like the doctor in Wilson took over for a moment, and he moved his free hand up to the back of House's neck. "Deep breath."

House shuddered and sucked in a lungful, relaxing in stages. Wilson worked his finger past the second ring of muscles and twisted around to nudge his prostate. "_Fuck!_" House's whole body convulsed, and then he tucked his head again.

"Breathe," Wilson coached. The guidance usually wasn't necessary when they had sex anymore, but it had been a few weeks since they did this, and House's brain wasn't running on full cylinders at the moment.

Air whistled past House's teeth, turning into a low, strained moan halfway out. "I'm not gonna…make it."

"You'll be fine." Wilson avoided his prostate after that and gradually slipped in a second finger, then a third, thrusting shallowly and twisting to stretch him open. After less than five minutes, House arched his back and shoved his ass down on Wilson's fingers, and Wilson deemed him ready – maybe too ready. There was no way this would last long, and not just for House. Merely watching him had left Wilson so sore that he felt he could very well explode without touching his penis at all. He grasped House's hips to hold him in place and then gulped in a few rapid, deep breaths. It did nothing except make him lightheaded, so he gave up on cooling himself down, angled his pelvis, and pushed in.

House stiffened and stopped breathing for a couple of seconds, and then he flexed with an odd sort of whine. Wilson wrapped both arms around him and smashed his face into House's hair, gasping for breath at the impossible heat and texture of House's body rippling around him. House quaked in his grasp, his chest and stomach sticking out opposite the concavity of his spine, letting out soft pitchy moans with every exhale, and then Wilson started moving because if he waited any longer, it would all end right there.

The second Wilson's cock rubbed over his insides, House gave a strangled cry and tried to speed things up. Wilson tightened his grip, his fingers digging into House's arm and ribcage, and did his damndest to keep him still. House rode back on his cock anyway; Wilson didn't have enough hands to hold him. He could already feel the pressure building below his spine, warm embers in his groin as his balls drew up, everything taut and poised to break. Wilson held his breath and crushed House to his chest, his rhythm broken, and groped for his House's cock. Once he had a firm grip, Wilson changed the angle of his thrusts to strike true against House's prostate.

House went rigid in his grasp, his body arced like a live wire had run a bolt of electricity through him, and then he sagged back into Wilson's arms, driving Wilson's cock deeper into his body. He shuddering in violent fits and spurts, shockwaves assaulting him like whiplash, and the sounds he made – just low gasping breaths and soft grunts, but Wilson could feel him struggling to breathe under the force of it. Wilson simply hung on for few suspended heartbeats, his body awash in slickness and pressure, and then the wave spilled over and Wilson came apart at the seams.

House could barely remain on his knees after it was over, and he pulled Wilson down with him, letting out a long, exhausted groan as his limbs turned to jelly. Wilson rolled to avoid falling on House's leg and they ended up sprawled sideways on the bed in an uncoordinated heap, Wilson on his back and House curled on his side. They both just concentrated on breathing for a little while, and then Wilson reached over to tug the belt buckle open. House licked his lips as he flung the belt off the bed, and then he stretched his arms out like a slinky cat basking in the sun.

A smile crept onto Wilson's face as he watched; House was never this unselfconscious, except for right after sex. "That was…" Wilson gave a dopey smile and then laughed. "That was so exactly what I needed."

House shot him a lazy smile and purred his response as he arranged his lanky limbs all over the bed and Wilson. Wilson playfully shoved House's arm off his stomach, so House merely draped it over Wilson's face instead.

Wilson peeled it off and hugged it to his chest. "Twerp."

"Twinky."

"Loony Tune."

"Hmm."

Wilson lifted his head and gazed at House from under droopy lids. His face softened to find House nearly passed out already, and Wilson peered down past his nose at the long-fingered hand he had managed to procure. He smiled at the calluses that he could feel marring House's palm, and then settled back, his spine popping as he relaxed. "So," Wilson said, still grinning like a goof with his teeth showing. "I take it that's what you wanted, huh?"

A low rumble percolated in House's chest; he barely stirred. "Mm…no."

It took a second for Wilson to realize he'd said no, and then he pushed House's hand aside and lumbered up to sit braced against wobbly arms. "No?"

House exhaled long and slow, his face turned into a pillow. "…no."

"I…then what did you want?" Wilson asked. He didn't really care that House was pretty much unconscious; he could feel his heart palpitate in his chest. More sharply, Wilson demanded, "House, what did you want?"

"Mm." House snuffled into the pillow and then shook himself enough to say, "Shuddup, freak. M'sleepin' here."

Wilson snorted. "Yeah, you are. And you'll probably deny this whole conversation in the morning."

House griped nonsense into the pillow.

"Right. Whatever you say." Wilson smoothed House's sweaty hair away from his temples, and then settled back down.

House shifted after Wilson had relinquished his weight to the bed, and Wilson raised his head to peer at House's face in profile. House blinked his eyes open, pupils still constricting in the wake of orgasm, and then he jerked himself back to some semblance of awareness. With no prelude whatsoever, House declared, "I want…before. I want things like they were before."

Wilson started, his gaze skimming past House to rest on the shiny brass of the second-rate nightstand lamp. That could mean any number of things – before the shooting, before they started sleeping together, before Amber… "I don't understand."

"I want my Wilson back."

Wilson's chest stuttered, and he couldn't look at anything beyond House's arm in front of him. "House, I didn't go anywhere."

House shook his head, adamant, but the pull of a sated body was too strong and he started to drift off again. "You went away when she died," he mumbled, his voice all breath and sleepy thickness. "And I keep thinking you're back, but you're not. You're never back, you just…visit sometimes."

Wilson snaked a hand over House's arm and laid back down. "I don't know what to say, House." He propped his chin on his hand to see House's reaction, but it was too late; House wasn't listening anymore.

Wilson watched him for a long time, counting his respirations, smiling at the way his face twitched and crinkled in sleep. There was no way Wilson would be able to drop off after that, though he gave it a shot. It was already past two in the morning; in actuality, there was little point in going to sleep now, because he would just feel worse for having an interrupted hour or two, as opposed to not sleeping at all. So he laid there thinking; what else was there to do? And he sort of surprised himself with some of the conclusions he drew.

The next morning, Wilson snuck out long before House woke up, ran to the convenient store across the street, and bought a roll of saran wrap. It wasn't much, but at least it sent a message that House would understand. Baby steps, right? And Wilson had to start somewhere because he had just realized that he missed Wilson too. He didn't like the feeling.

--TBC


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Okay, first things first. I know a lot of people so far on my LJ account (who have already read these sections) object to Olivia's therapy methods. I understand their objections, and in most cases, I would agree with those objections. However, Olivia is a fictional character and I am not a psychologist. All I can offer in her defense is that her technique works for some people (though it's true that most would hate her guts and find her useless). So, by all means, object to her general therapy technique. But don't get nasty about it, and don't yell at other commenters. I know too many people who benefit from her sort of methods, myself included. Different strokes for different folks. I love to hear your **_**constructive**_** criticisms on characterizations, but if you intend to comment solely to lambaste me for creating a character with controversial treatment methods, I will get House to call you a hypocrite. **

**In short, please feel free to express your opinion – any opinion, good or bad – but be CIVIL about it. **

**Thank you for reading my rant. :)**

**Okay – that said, please enjoy!**

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Wilson finished arranging his hair and considered blowing the hairdryer right into House's face to wake him up. The idea made him smile, but House in the morning was not a force to be trifled with. Instead, Wilson padded out into the main room on socked feet and smiled at the snoring picture House made sprawled all over the rumpled bed with only a corner of a sheet to cover his midsection. A faint hint of musk and sex still hovered on the recycled air. Wilson tilted his head and glanced back at the bathroom.

A minute later, Wilson crawled onto the bed, knees and palms planted around House's splayed limbs. "Hey." He kept his voice soft, barely a whisper, and craned his neck around House's to nibble behind his ear.

House twitched and drew his left leg up in an aborted bid to roll onto his side.

"House." Wilson kissed his way softly across House's collarbone.

"Mph-num." House turned his head toward Wilson and loudly unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Mm." He smiled without really waking.

Wilson gave him a wicked grin in return, which House thankfully did not see. "Morning."

House sighed and slurred Wilson's name, purring deep in his chest.

Wilson flipped the hairdryer on.

"_Ahhho_lymothergodfuckingpieceof – !" Pillows went everywhere and House scrambled straight off the side of the bed. "_Ow_!"

"Oh…crap." Wilson shut off the hairdryer and clambered across the bed. One of House's feet was caught in the comforter; the rest of him had landed on the floor along with most of the pillows. "Are you okay?"

House blinked up at him, dazed. "…the fuck?"

"Um." Wilson hefted the hair dryer. "Happy Saturday?"

House looked at the hairdryer, then back up at Wilson. A mischievous smile finagled its way onto his face. "You're pranking on borrowed time, buddy."

Wilson smirked and turned on his trademark charm. "Who, me?"

House gave him a look. "You don't fool me." Then he crooked a finger in the direction of the nightstand. "Now get the cripple his pills."

And that killed the mood. Wilson pursed his lips, then retreated to find House's jeans from wherever he'd thrown them the night before. Wilson plucked them out from under the edge of the second bed, shook them to make sure the pills were still in there, then lobbed the jeans at House's head. "Hurry up or we'll be late."

House squawked when the jeans hit him, then griped and grumbled his way to his feet. After he knocked back two pills, balanced precariously on one leg, he glared at Wilson, his whiskers bristling and his hair matted to one side of his head.

Wilson waited for him to disappear into the bathroom, then ducked his head and smiled. This had definitely been missing for far too long – the messing with each other part of the relationship. The _friendship_.

From the bathroom came an incredulous, "What the…"

Wilson glanced toward the bathroom, then concentrated on knotting his tie. He'd almost forgotten about the saran wrap and the toilet seat. Actually, he'd almost pranked himself on accident after he'd gotten out of the shower.

House cracked open the bathroom door and stuck his head out. "So is this like a midlife crisis event? Are we reliving med school or something?"

Wilson shot House a bland look and shrugged his shirt cuffs down so that he could button them. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Like hell you don't." House pointed a finger at him. "I'll get you back for this." Then he ducked back into the bathroom.

"You'd better," Wilson called after him. Ten minutes later, Wilson was all set. He stood next to the desk that looked suspiciously like an entertainment center, and stuck his hands on his hips. "Are you ready yet? I'm gonna miss my first patient if we don't leave in the next ten minutes."

"Don't get your boxers in a bunch." House limped out of the bathroom mostly dressed, still barefoot and toweling off his hair as he headed for the bed to sit down.

"Comb?" Wilson held one out to him.

House shoved a towel-covered finger in his ear and wriggled it around, one side of his face scrunched like a dog scratching at its collar. "What for?"

Wilson shrugged and started straightening up and putting his things away to make it easy on the maids.

House tugged his sneakers on and absorbed himself in pulling the laces just tight enough to be comfortable. "Wilson, stop making the bed. They pay people to do that."

"It wouldn't kill you to tidy up after yourself once in a while." Wilson smoothed the blankets down and then had to steer House away before he balled up all the bedding and tossed it in a corner.

"Killjoy."

"Slob. Oh!" Wilson startled himself and then rounded on House. "I almost forgot." He gave House a preemptive smile, stepped into his personal bubble, and then hugged him before he could skitter away.

House went rigid. "Um. Not that this isn't cool or anything…cuz I'm flattered and all…but what the hell are you doing?"

Wilson rubbed his cheek against House's just to freak him out a little more, and then inhaled House's shirt, smiling like an idiot the whole time. "Taking my medication."

House just stood there, stiff as a board. "You're gonna make me regret being sappy, aren't you."

"Can it," Wilson replied. "I know you like it."

House looked up at the ceiling, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. "Right."

"You have to hug back, you know. Otherwise, I'm the hugger, and you're the huggee, and you'd basically be stealing my prescription medication." Wilson paused, then added, "And we've already done the whole valid script and drug charge thing."

House grumbled, "That's not funny." But he sort of patted Wilson's shoulder a few times.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House, just fucking hug me and I'll let you go."

"You really suck sometimes." House properly embraced him, nowhere near at ease, and rubbed Wilson's back with one hand. Then Wilson felt him sort of shift and lean as if he meant for it to seem like an accident.

Wilson chuckled. "You just like to hear yourself complain." He squeezed for a second and then let go.

House released him a second later, but his fingers lingered on Wilson's arm just long enough to be obvious. "Are you done now?"

Wilson grabbed his briefcase and used it to gesture at House. "You don't fool me for a second."

"Oh, piss off," House snarked as he preceded Wilson to the door. "You just enjoy torturing me."

"This is true." Wilson straightened his tie as House swung the door open.

"Seriously," House said. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

Wilson looked scandalized. "Nothing."

House narrowed his eyes at him, then limped out into the hall. "You're giddy. I'd ask if you were drunk or stoned or something, but – "

" – but I'm not you."

"Exactly." House hobbled to the elevator and poked the button, then stuck his hand in his pocket, swaying his weight back and forth on his cane. When Wilson finally stopped obsessing over whether or not the door was locked, House swung toward him and stayed there. "So spill it. You up your meds again?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I'm happy."

House studied him for a second, his gaze clinical enough that Wilson grew uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "You pick really weird times to get happy. You know that, right? It's like a really screwed up sort of coping mechanism. You mire yourself so deep in the denial pool that you actually beat depression." House paused and let his eyes wander toward the ceiling. "Actually, that _is_ pretty cool."

"House, knock it off." Wilson scowled at the elevator and privately cursed it for taking so damn long. "Just because some of us can find it in ourselves to relish the little joys in life – "

"Wow, you're like a walking, talking Lifetime movie!" House bounced on his good leg, feigning glee. "And just as sincere. It's like I don't even know you anymore."

Wilson blinked and then gave an abbreviated balk. "House, this _is_ me. You said you missed before, and _before_, we used to screw with each other all the time – figuratively." He held up his hands as if to illustrate the non-literal disclaimer. "And we annoyed each other, and we acted like idiots and cracked bad jokes, and – "

"Wilson." House sounded irritated. "That's not you. Even ten years ago, this was not you. It was me. _You_, on the other hand, couldn't let loose after chugging a bottle of Ex-Lax. I had to annoy the piss out of you – literally – for a week just to get you to play _one_ prank back on me. And when you _do_ initiate, it's because you're trying to distract me from something else that you're doing, that you don't want me to _know_ you're doing. So you're either stressed and scared shitless, or you're cheating on me." House glanced over his shoulder as the elevator dinged, then looked at Wilson from the corner of his eye. "You're stressed," he proclaimed, and then hopped onto the elevator.

Wilson rolled his eyes and stomped after him. "That's convoluted, even for you." He supposed he should be grateful, though, that House _didn't_ think he was cheating for once. Oh, the irony…or not, since Wilson still didn't think that anything could have possibly happened. He shook that off and replied, "Of course I'm stressed. So are you. I'm coping. So should you." He glared at House without turning his head. "You're ruining my good mood, by the way."

House seemed to ponder that, though even when serious he often appeared less than, and then he shrugged. "Okay, fine. I'm not gonna pass over the free prank pass." He gave Wilson an indeterminate once-over and turned serious. "You're gonna crash eventually." And then he held up his hand and did that little twiddle-finger-point-at-the-floor thing. "After I crush you, that is."

Wilson flared his nostrils and watched the floor numbers descend. "You're just a pessimist. And I'm gonna kick your ass."

"Realist," House countered. Arguing over semantics was simply one of his hobbies. "And in your dreams."

The carriage reached the ground floor with a jolt, and even Wilson stumbled. He shook his head in disbelief that no one had complained about that before, and then slipped out of the elevator. He had only taken a few steps when he realized there were no cane-thumps behind him. "House?" Wilson turned back and then lunged to stick his briefcase in the doors before they closed all the way. They clunked back open and Wilson stepped back inside. "Hey. Are you okay?" He waited a moment, then asked, "Cramp? Spasm?"

House swallowed, his head bowed to one side, and then swallowed again.

Wilson craned his neck to try to catch his gaze, but House had his eyes shut. More worried now, Wilson touched House's cheek and barked, "House!"

House started, then shook his head and swallowed on last time before he straightened. Then his eyes narrowed. "What?"

"What do you mean, _what_?" Wilson demanded. "Are you okay? What happened?"

House gave him a bewildered shrug, which rapidly progressed to annoyed under the force of Wilson's worried stare. "I'm fine," he snapped. "Just because I don't agree with you – "

"House, you spaced out for like fifteen seconds."

House's voice petered out, and he squinted dubiously at Wilson. "Seriously?"

Wilson nodded, his own eyes going wider. "Yeah. Non-responsive, simple automatism… I think you had a partial seizure. It's official now; you need to go back on the gabapentin because you're either experiencing acute withdrawal symptoms, or you have an undiagnosed seizure disorder that the gabapentin was treating without anyone realizing it."

House's head bobbled uncertainly and he leveled his gaze on the button panel.

Wilson watched him for a second, then said, "Seriously, House. Are you okay? Do you know where you are?"

"Of course I know where I am." House gave him an exasperated look, but Wilson noticed that he spoke just a tad more slowly than usual – that he took more care with his words. "Just press the damn button before we end up on some other floor."

Wilson frowned, then reached behind himself for the open-button. The main lobby reappeared and Wilson stepped out again, holding his arm in the door so that House could follow. Quietly, Wilson said, "I mean it. You need to get checked out before this gets any worse."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it." House limped past him, headed for the doors, and then he hesitated before detouring through the main lobby.

Wilson rushed to catch up; he figured that House was headed for the free continental breakfast, which he was. "House – "

"Drop it."

"No."

House snagged a styrofoam coffee cup and then made a face over his shoulder at Wilson. "I don't have epilepsy."

Wilson threw his hands out, his briefcase dangling from one of them. "Good. Then it's withdrawal."

"Will you give it a rest?" House hobbled to the coffee urn and dispensed himself a full cup, to which he added cream.

Just because House was getting coffee, Wilson grabbed a cup too. "Why are you being so stubborn about this? I'm not trying to backdoor you into going back on Ngyen's regimen. I just want you healthy."

House slammed the cream container down and then faced Wilson. "Wilson, I'm a cripple. I'm never going to be healthy."

Wilson stared at him for a moment, and then he put his back to House while he poured sugar into this coffee. "You know what? You win, House. Go self-destruct or overdose, or whatever the hell you want to do about your damn leg. You can mainline morphine for all I care anymore. Just…" He slashed his hands through the air, nixing the whole argument. "I'm done." Then he smashed a lid onto his cup and walked out with it.

A weight seemed to crush him as he left the hotel, borne more of the fact that House didn't follow him than anything else. Again; it was like walking away with a box under his arm… _Buy a plant._ Wilson fumbled in his pocket for his keys and then clicked the locks open, but all he did was set his coffee on the roof of the Volvo and then lean against it. He sucked in deep breaths but they went nowhere.

"Wilson?"

He tilted his head and glimpsed House in his periphery, standing near the hood of his car, coffee-less, his backpack slung over one shoulder. Wilson watched him for a second, then snuffled and grabbed his cup.

"Wilson, wait."

"Go away. Go…wherever. I don't care. Just go." Soft, lopsided footsteps approached across the pavement. Wilson kept his head down, supporting himself against the Volvo, his keys in one hand and his drink in the other.

House stopped just outside of arm's reach. "You…you're giving up?" He didn't add _on me_, but it seemed implied.

A mirthless laugh slipped from Wilson's lips to hear the bewildered hurt in House's voice. "What – you're disappointed?" He straightened and turned to face House, his hands going to the edge of the open car door – an anchor. He tried to smile because that's what he did; he put up his front and smiled at everything that sucked the life out of him.

House met his gaze for a moment, and then his eyes wandered off to the side, his body skewing with them to shift more of his weight to the cane. He blinked at a passing car and then frowned.

Wilson laughed again, this time at rendering the great Gregory House speechless. It was a pathetic sound, really – one bleak chuckle that fell dead in the space between them. His eyes fell and he noticed that House's left shoelace was untied and frayed at one end. Wilson shook his head. "You're unbelievable. You know that?"

House's head jerked toward him, confused blue eyes glowing in an otherwise drab landscape.

"I have to go to work." Wilson leaned into the Volvo to set his coffee in the cup holder, and then he tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat. When he straightened, House was still standing there looking uncertain and maybe a little scared.

Wilson sighed and then rubbed at the back of his neck before he lowered himself into his car. He jammed the key into the ignition and then fiddled with the settings on his temperature and radio controls. He expected House to climb into the passenger seat just because House didn't walk away from a fight – he chased fights down hallways so that he could keep yelling his various points – and House needed a ride to the hospital anyway. Nobody joined him, though, and when Wilson looked up to see why, he caught the tail end of House disappearing back into the hotel.

"Dammit." Wilson closed his eyes and knocked his forehead against the steering wheel a few times. Then he shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking space. He was already going to be late to his first appointment, and House was a big boy; he could call a cab. None of that made Wilson feel like any less of a shit.

* * *

Wilson made it about a block before he mentally swore at himself and pulled into a Dunkin Donuts parking lot to turn around. He ended up in the drive-thru, purchasing a peace offering, and then he headed back to the stupid hotel. House was sitting on a bus bench at the edge of the sidewalk, and Wilson almost didn't recognize him. After backing out of the driveway, Wilson pulled up in front of the bench and rolled down the passenger window. "Get in."

House glanced up from the pavement, his face blank, and then looked away.

"House, come on. I'm blocking traffic." Wilson flared his nostrils and then held up the latte thing he had bought. In a sing-song voice, he taunted, "It's vanilla."

"Yeah? You trying to cover up the taste of gabapentin?"

"I'm not dosing you." Wilson lowered the cup and his eyes at the same pace, and then he sighed. "House, just get in. Please." When House merely shot him a suspicious glance, Wilson added, "You haven't ridden a bus since Amber died. I know you don't want to."

House continued to ignore him and Wilson eventually pulled forward with a scowl to park at a meter. The bus was approaching by the time Wilson walked back to the bench, and he found it telling that House didn't stand as it stopped in front of him. Several people disembarked while House eyed the thing, and then the driver gave him an irritated look as he shut the doors and drove away. House merely grimaced and took to bouncing his cane between his feet.

"See?" Wilson sat down next to him and extended the latte. House refused to take it, so Wilson slumped back on the bench and sipped it for himself. It wasn't half bad. Ironically enough, it was too sweet for him, though. Wilson sighed and scrubbed at the back of his neck, then tapped his foot a few times. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean it."

"Maybe you should stop saying things you don't mean," House replied, his tone as flat as the rest of his affect.

Wilson nodded, then temporized, "I worry about you. That's all."

"Yeah, fine. Whatever."

Wilson bit back a harsh retort, then turned on the bench to face him. "What is with you and all these – these arguments over petty crap, and the – the mood swings? You won't even let me comment on the pills, or the anxiety, or the…other things. I can't even act like I give a damn about any of it because you're just going to bite my head off, and I'm worried…" He trailed off and bit his lip. "House, you're hurting yourself."

House gazed blandly back, and then sudden sarcastic animation infused his features. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot you're the only one who's fucked up right now." His voice rose as he went on. "Cuz, you know, you were totally alone in the room where the little kid got his fucking face splattered all over the goddamn wall!" By the end, he was shouting.

Wilson gaped and cast an automatic glance around to make sure no one had overheard the outburst. He couldn't help it; he didn't want people paying attention to them. "Okay, but you could have just told me you were having trouble dealing with – "

"Wilson, what the hell planet do you live on?" House demanded sharply. "How can you even think I'd be okay with – " He threw an angry gesture at Wilson, plus the whole of creation. " – with standing a foot away, and – " He made a frustrated sound, then threw himself back on the bench, slouching with enough force that it had to hurt his back. Then he fumed for a second and finished, "Fuck you. I already tried to talk to you. You didn't want to hear it."

Wilson chewed his lip for a moment, then lamely offered, "I'm listening now."

House snorted. "You're listening now. Thanks, Wilson. You're a real pal." He glanced at Wilson long enough to snatch the half-consumed coffee from Wilson's hand. "The problem with you and all your ambiguous consideration is that you only parcel it out when you feel like it, not when somebody actually needs it, so when you do it, it's just annoying." House guzzled most of what was left and then made a face and thrust it back into Wilson's hand. "God, that tastes like shit. What the hell is that?"

"Vanilla latte." Wilson glanced at the cup, then shrugged. "It tastes fine to me. I thought you liked these syrupy things."

"That's not syrupy. It tastes like carbon." House exhaled sharply and then glanced back at the hotel. Without looking at Wilson, he offered, "I probably shouldn't have said that about the cripple thing, but I didn't want to talk about the damn pills anymore, and you pissed me off. And now you're like Stephen Fry off his meds."

Wilson started to make a witty comeback, then abruptly frowned. "Who?"

House tilted his head at Wilson. "British comedian. Bipolar. He gives talks and things about it." He twiddled some fingers to signify 'things.' "You should get out more. Dude – the guy is on 'Bones.'"

"Oh." Wilson squinted at nothing. "The show with the hot forensic chick with no personality?"

"Lack of personality doesn't make a chick any less hot. Considerably more so, in some cases." House gazed off into the distance and Wilson also spared a moment for reflection on the appealing nature of women. Then House broke the silence. "You seriously need to go back on the higher dosage, Wilson. You're all dreamy again."

Wilson blinked, then rolled his eyes. "Good lord, House. So I'm not the man of constant sorrow. Why exactly should I have to join you in your endless pursuit of misery?"

House turned on the bench to glare at him. "You cannot seriously expect yourself to recover from a nervous breakdown in a week and a half. You can't."

Wilson pursed his lips, then averred, "I didn't have a nervous breakdown, House. I just got a little perturbed."

House's brows inched upward in slow motion. "Perturbed." He drew the word out, coating each syllable in doubt. "Right. You were just perturbed." He settled back on the bench and made a pretense of getting comfortable. Then he exploded with, "Quit being a damn idiot! You flipped out and disassociated. And you can't just bounce back in eight days like nothing happened. Nobody can. _I_ can't." He griped some more under his breath, the words indiscernible.

They didn't say anything for several minutes, and Wilson picked at the lid of the coffee cup as another bus pulled up. House got halfway to his feet this time, and then sank back down, looking ill at ease. That bus drove off too, and then Wilson mumbled, "Can we go back to the car now?"

House sighed, his eyes dancing all over the pavement. Then he asked softly, "What do I have to do, Wilson? I'm no good at this sort of thing, so I need you to tell me how to help you get better."

Wilson didn't move for a heartbeat, and then he turned his whole body on the bench to stare at where House sat hunched over with his elbows on his knees, rolling his cane between his palms. He wanted to answer, but he had no idea what to say. So he just flat-out admitted, "I don't know."

"Uh-huh." House made all sorts of faces in random directions, then softened his voice to ask, "Did you even remember to bring your meds last night?"

Wilson bit the corner of his bottom lip and let his eyes wander over the street. "I couldn't find them; the place was a mess, and you were waiting outside, and it was late…" He reset his feet and leaned forward on his knees. "It's not a big deal. I'll get a replacement script when we get to the hospital."

House gazed at the ground between his feet in disappointment, then puffed out his cheeks. "Okay." He levered himself to his feet and grabbed his backpack from the ground next to him. "Let's go. You're already late."

Wilson nodded and followed him back to the car, bewildered and worried at the emergence of House's passive streak. That sort of indifference only seemed to come out in the moment before House gave up on something for good – a frightening brand of resignation, like he knew he couldn't possibly succeed and the effort was therefore not worth it. Wilson trailed along with an altogether new concern burning in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

"You're an idiot!"

Wilson jumped as his office door flew open and Olivia stormed in. "Why, House. You've tanned."

Olivia glared at him and slammed the door, then dropped her tennis bag on the floor. "This is supposed to be my day off, you know."

"I didn't call you." Wilson held his hands up to ward off her temper, his pen caught between two fingers. He tried to stop his gaze from wandering, but Olivia had on some adorable little tennis skirt, and her legs were just so –

"My eyes are up here." Olivia pointed at her face and Wilson turned red. "You know, I'm starting to think House is right. You're a polite twit. You don't even know how good you've got it. I would give my left arm to have someone as devoted as that." She jabbed a finger at the wall that Wilson shared with House's conference room.

Confused, Wilson merely said, "Okay. House called you?"

"Yeah," Olivia nodded, vigorous as a bobble head doll on a turbulent plane. "But I'm not supposed to tell you that because he's terrified that you'll leave him again for siccing the big bad head doctor on you." She threw up her arms and turned toward the balcony, then spun back. "What the hell were you thinking? When I said okay to you reducing your doses, I thought you had common sense enough to do it slowly. But no, you just didn't take it at all. Where in your fat head did that make sense?" She fluttered her fingers spastically all around her skull.

"Uh…I couldn't find them." Wilson blinked at her antics. "I'm sorry he interrupted your game – "

"Oh, shut up. I was losing anyway." Olivia flared her nostrils and then sat down in one of his patient chairs. When she crossed her legs, Wilson automatically glanced at them. With absolutely no expression, Olivia leaned forward and tipped one of Wilson's files up to block his view. "You look one more time, and I'm gonna add pervert to your diagnosis."

Wilson cracked a tiny smile. "Sorry. Habit."

Olivia sat back and flipped a hand at him. "You should be looking at House's legs. They're not half bad."

"House doesn't like me looking at his legs." Wilson made a sheepish face. "The scar."

"Fine, then stare at his ass. I don't really care." Olivia sighed. "You freaked him out. I heard about the break-in; Doctor Cuddy sent a memo around about security and being vigilant and all that jazz. She didn't mention names, but the grapevine's a-buzzin'. And House said you had a fight this morning to top it all off."

Wilson ran a hand through his hair, ending in a squeeze at the back of his neck. "He's exaggerating. We had a disagreement, and he said something that I probably took more seriously than I should have, and – "

"Oh, no-no-no. Don't downplay it. He called me from the hotel lobby and demanded I tell him what to do to fix you." Olivia made a face at the bookshelf while Wilson processed that, then said, "I told him it's not possible to fix another person. You wanna know what he said to that?" She didn't wait for Wilson to respond. "He said it's a couple thing. He said you explained it to him once, and he has to do it because that's what couples do."

"What?" Wilson glanced at the balcony on a paranoid reflex. "I never said that."

"Well, whatever you did say, that's how he interpreted it." Olivia grabbed her nose between thumb and forefinger and tugged, then she dropped her hand. "He's been calling me regularly, actually."

Wilson gave her an insulted look. "You two have been talking about me behind my back?"

"No. He thinks so, but no. Not really." Olivia shifted in her chair, irritated. "I get the impression that he normally goes to you for these things. You're his conscience and his interpreter… When somebody's acting odd emotionally and he needs someone to explain it to him, to tell him how to handle it and rationalize it, he comes to you. Except you're the erratic one right now, so he needs a new translator."

Wilson pursed his lips, nostrils flared, and gazed at his desk blotter for a second. "I'm not erratic, okay? I'm fine. I'm a little stressed out, but – "

"You had a breakdown a week ago," Olivia cut in. "You cannot possibly expect yourself to be fine this quickly."

That was almost an exact echo of what House had said at the bus stop. Wilson wondered which of them had said it first, and knowing that they must have discussed him in that much detail rankled. "I don't have the luxury of indulging my – "

Olivia raised her voice to talk over him. "You witnessed a little child's murder. And we haven't even touched on the subject since then. How can you expect all of your issues with that event to just resolve themselves, absent therapy? Absent closure? Absent even the slightest understanding? You are _not_ okay. And you won't even admit that."

Wilson scrubbed at his scalp for a second, then stopped when he realized that he was messing up his hair. He tried to comb it back down, then left off and snapped, "So I don't want to talk about it. You're the one who told me I didn't have to talk about it if I wasn't comfortable."

"There are other things to talk about. Somebody broke into House's apartment last night – a space you two share – trashed it, and left a newspaper clipping as a calling card. You wanna talk about that?"

Wilson shut his eyes. "It's nothing. The police are handling it."

Olivia shook her head. "James, it's natural to be overwhelmed. If you weren't, you'd be a sociopath." She paused, then offered, "House says you won't even talk to him. Why won't you tell him what's on your mind?"

"I do! I tell him all the time. I tell him – "

"You nag him about his pills? His health? Whether or not he combs his hair?"

Wilson stopped, then glowered. "Is that what he told you?"

"Among other things. It sounds like you're fixating on minutia to cover up what's really eating you." Olivia moved her shoulders noncommittally. Then she relented. "This isn't supposed to be easy, you know. And talking to me isn't going to magically make you all better. You have to try; you can't just relate the routine events of your day and expect it to make a difference."

Wilson opened his mouth to refute that even though he knew he had no grounds for doing so, but he decided against it at the last second.

Olivia watched him for nearly a minute, waiting for any sort of reply. When none come, she sighed and looked away. "I made a mistake, letting you lower your meds. I'm sorry, James. You need to stay on the higher dosage for a little longer."

Wilson experienced a sinking feeling of deja vu, accompanied by the same anger that he had felt in the cafeteria a week ago. But this time, he deflated immediately after it rushed through him, leaving a sense of injustice in its wake. "But it was just a spat! And House isn't any better – he overreacts to _everything_! Why are you doing this to me? Why aren't you yelling at him?"

"You think I didn't? James, the both of you are walking poster-children for a dysfunctional relationship. Believe me, he did not walk away from the phone unscathed." At Wilson's stricken look, Olivia leaned forward and extended a hand that did not quite reach his across the desk. "This is not a punishment, James. You need to get your act together, deal with the fallout and all the crap going on right now, and get better. And I'm convinced that this is the only way." She paused. "You should think about what you want to get out of these sessions, because unless you have some sort of goal in mind, I can't help you. And then you're going to self-destruct, and nothing I can do will bring you back."

"Right." Wilson regarded his pencil cup, numb, and then he threw his pen down on the desk. It skittered away and fell off the other side, and he dropped his head into his hands.

Olivia sat there for a moment in silence, then asked, "Why is it so hard for you to lean on him? I mean, besides the whole cane and upset balance thing."

Wilson peered at her through his parted fingers. "House is House. He cures diseases – things he can see. He doesn't help people; it holds no interest for him."

Olivia smiled. "I know you don't really believe that; we've already had this discussion." She gave him time enough to speak if he chose to, then offered, "He wants to be there for you; he wouldn't keep trying otherwise. Yeah, his methods are totally fucked up, and his mode of concern more closely resembles stalking than anything else. But that's only because he has no idea what he's doing. And yes, half the time he probably makes things worse. But I honestly believe he's trying to do right by you."

Wilson heaved a sigh and shut his eyes, his nose squished against the webbing between two fingers. "House is just trying to make sure I don't go away again. He's a selfish – "

"He risked his life for a woman he didn't like, just because you asked him to. I don't care how selfish his _motives_ were for doing that. The _act_ was still selfless, and if you didn't matter so much to him, he would never have bothered. James, it's the same thing now. Yes, he's terrified of losing you, but it's only because of how much he cares. He would do anything at this point, and the fact that you can't see that is tearing him up."

Olivia must have been staring at him, probably with sympathy or compassion dashed with a hint of pity for the lost little oncologist. "I never talked to you about Amber," Wilson snapped.

"No," Olivia agreed. "House brought it up on the phone." Since Wilson didn't pursue that, Olivia sighed and said, "I think you're just afraid to trust him not to let you fall. I think you're afraid to admit that you need somebody to catch you at all." She patted one of his hands. "Go over there and talk to him. Say anything; it doesn't matter what. Just don't run off again. Okay? He's worried enough to tell me that you're having problems again, which means he's willing to risk losing you again. I know you two don't use the L word with each other, but it's obvious he loves you. Obvious to me, anyway. Go show him that he's allowed to act accordingly. I have a feeling you've never actually shown him that before."

Wilson shrugged his whole upper body, his fingers still splayed across his cheeks.

Olivia smiled. "Okay." She leaned over to rummage in her bag, then deposited two pill bottles on the desk in front of him. "Take your meds; I'm still doing blood checks. And I'll see you Monday. Try not to do anything idiotic before then."

Wilson nodded and then watched her leave. It was strange; her insistence on helping him actually made her less attractive to him. He didn't look twice at her backside, even when she bent over to retrieve her tennis bag. Did he come off that way to House too? Could House tell that Wilson resented it when he tried to help? To do 'couple things' back to him? Maybe _that_ was why Wilson's marriages always failed. On an even playing field, he crumbled. Wilson couldn't stand the thought that he needed other people too – that he wasn't perfect. And that was sort of hypocritical, considering the sorts of things he told House about asking for help and relying on people to provide it...and about it being okay to do so. It also bothered Wilson that he needed a therapist to point that out to him.

* * *

The rest of Wilson's day did not go as planned, which was saying something since he hadn't planned it at all beyond his morning patient appointments. He received an impromptu visit from Cuddy just before lunch, doing her administrator pledge-of-support thing. Not that she could do much aside from offer them time off, should they decide to leave town for a week or so. She also let him know that she was increasing hospital security both inside the main complex and on the campus grounds, which Wilson cynically observed had never stopped gunmen from entering the hospital before. Cuddy didn't react to that other than to sigh at the window, offer a formless apology, and then leave. Only afterwards did Wilson reflect on how harshly he had been treating her lately. He was still mad, though, for the things she had said in the hallway after the shooting.

Wilson didn't know if Cuddy dropped by House's office too, but he thought not. House was probably sequestered at the moment, and he had mentioned to Wilson at the bowling alley that he hadn't actually said a word to her since the shooting, though she had gone out of her way to track him down for more than just clinic reminders. Wilson didn't know what House was thinking or feeling about Cuddy, or about the shooting at all, for that matter. So far, all Wilson really knew was what House had said at the bus stop that morning. _…you can't just bounce back in eight days like nothing happened. Nobody can. _I_ can't. _Somehow, that stark statement hadn't registered with Wilson at the time.

Wilson knew that they'd both touched on the subject once before, when House had barricaded himself in the bedroom and shouted that he loved Wilson like it was some sort of curse to say so out loud. Wilson didn't remember much of that argument, though; he just remembered trying to think of a magic combination of words to get House to let him back into the room. It felt like failure to realize that without the psych meds in his system, he could be so figuratively deaf. Wilson should have realized long before now that House was just as far from okay as Wilson was; it just didn't show as much.

After an unhealthy lunch pilfered from the vending machines in the oncology lounge, Wilson decided to make impromptu rounds since he was there and had the time. He called Brown to let him know he would handle it, and then boarded an elevator bound for the third floor. The doors slid open and Wilson, with his nose in a chart, walked straight into House's waiting arms. Wilson started as he ran into him, and then froze with House wrapped around his upper body. Down the hall at the nurse's station, a dozen people dropped what they were doing to stare, and Wilson's eyes saucered. He swore he could hear House counting to twenty, as if that were the proper duration of a platonic comfort-hug, and then he unhanded Wilson and gimped off down a side corridor. By the time Wilson recovered, it was too late to say anything, though he could still smell a hint of something uniquely House where it permeated his lab coat.

It took Wilson ten minutes to realize that six hours had passed since he took his 'medication' in the hotel room that morning. Instead of making Wilson smile, it left an ache in his chest. Later on, he ascribed his frantic dash toward the water fountain to being thrown out of sorts by the hug, and then he laughed under his breath as he held a half-dead dandelion under the water until the sample cup overflowed.

Wilson went searching for House around three, but according to his team, he had just left. Their water-bleeding patient turned out to be a hoax; she had injected a saline solution just under the surface of her skin, the way vets did with dehydrated animals, so that when she cut lightly across her arm, she pierced the bubble of water. It was pretty ingenious, actually, if infuriating. According to Kutner, the moment House had realized what was going on, he had grabbed his things and stormed out. Since Wilson was done for the day too, he closed up shop, dodged Foreman's reminder about the STD panel, and made his way to the parking garage. A quick check verified that House's Repsol was gone, and Wilson pulled out into Saturday traffic hoping that House would be at the hotel when he got there.

Some sort of prescience led Wilson to drive on autopilot, and he was turning the corner toward 221B before he realized what he was doing. He planned to circle the block and backtrack to the freeway, but a flash of orange caught his eye; House's motorcycle was chained up in its usual spot, right in front of his door. Wilson braked abruptly and hesitated a moment before throwing the Volvo in reverse to park on the street in front of House's building. He scanned the surrounding area like a bandit casing his next target, and only climbed out of his car when everything else in sight had ceased to move. Quiet piano strains drifted out onto the sidewalk as Wilson hopped the steps to the door; it sounded like one of Chopin's nocturnes. When he shoved his key into the lock, the apartment fell silent.

Wilson pushed the door open and stuck his head in. "Hey."

House regarded him warily, then went back to playing. "Wilson."

"You know, it's probably not a good idea to be here right now." Wilson came all of the way inside and bolted the door behind him.

"Hotel doesn't have a piano." House's fingers seemed to move at random, no longer spelling out a melody, simply weaving bits of randomness into a pleasant bit of noise. It said something that House didn't question Wilson's finding him here. "And the cops are doing drive-bys. They stopped me when I got here."

Wilson nodded and shrugged out of his coat, then draped it over the couch. That was probably House-speak for _I didn't know if you were still pissed, so I came here just in case we weren't speaking again._ Wilson tried to ignore the utter chaos around him as he perched on the edge of the desk, his hands gripping the cool brim. "We, um. We need to have a serious talk."

"Oh, goody." House kept right on playing his irregular, invented tune.

"I mean it," Wilson insisted. "And not just one where I sit here and lecture. You have to participate."

"No, I don't."

Wilson fought the urge to roll his eyes and skewed his gaze to a bookshelf instead. All the books were on the floor in a crumpled pile. "Fine. Then I'll wait."

House glanced up, his brow furrowed. "For what?"

"For you to be ready."

A few lingering notes pattered out of the piano, and then House put his hands in his lap. Without looking at Wilson, he warned, "If this is about the pills – "

No it wasn't, not entirely, but that was as good a place to start as any. "I don't care what you take anymore, or how much – Vicodin, morphine…hell, take methadone if that's what Ngyen suggests, just stop ignoring what it's doing to you." Wilson shook his head without lifting it. "I can't see you like this anymore, House. I don't know what the hell you're trying to prove – if you're just fucking with me or if this is some jackass ploy to shove your pain in my face to prove it's real, like I don't already know that – "

"I'm not shoving it in your face."

Wilson let out the rest of his breath, then nodded to show he accepted that. "I hate fighting with you over it. I hate wasting the time trying to…" He didn't know what, so he made a vague gesture with one hand and let the rest of his breath out in a soft hiss between his teeth. House had said once before that he knew Wilson would outlive him, but it hadn't really hit that neither of them were young anymore. Wilson had maybe ten more years with him, fifteen if he was lucky. Odds were, House wouldn't live long enough to collect social security no matter what precautions Wilson took. "If this is the only way to have you, then I'll take it. I'm tired of pretending I can change you."

House made a funny sound in the depths of his throat, then cut himself off, throat locking over whatever was running through his head.

Wilson didn't know what House intended to say, and he didn't want to. "You're worth losing! Okay?" His whole frame shook against the desk and he was glad for the support it offered because his knees were going weak under him. "I don't know what else to do, House, and I'd rather have ten good years with you knowing that it's just a matter of time before you kill yourself with the pills, than lose you now over some _stupid_ fight that I can't win. It's worth the pain, House. I want the pain because at least it means you were mine to lose."

He didn't realize they had fallen into a tense silence until he heard the piano bench creak, and House's tripod-footsteps shuffling closer. Wilson let out a sharp laugh because he thought this whole discussion must be an irony of some sort, though he wasn't sure how. It was just one of those situations that should have been tragically funny. He wanted to find it laughable just so it wouldn't hurt quite as much.

Wilson looked up to see if was working – to see if House bought the smile even though he knew better. He found nothing but worry and confusion in the blue eyes that stared back. Wilson let go of the desk with one hand and traced his forehead with a thumb, then held the hand out in House's direction as if to demand some sort of explanation or response. Ball's in the other court now; what else could Wilson do, except wait for House to do whatever the hell he always did?

House looked away first for once; it hadn't registered in Wilson's head that they were having a staring contest. He wondered what the battle had been for, exactly. Wilson looked down with a sigh, then reached for House's arm before he could decide to jump ship and leave the room. Wilson tugged gently at his elbow and House stumbled a little bit closer, unsure of how to react to Wilson's odd behavior. Odd to House, anyway; in Wilson's mind, his behavior made perfect sense. House wasn't the only one who pushed things to the breaking point before he realized he had to back off just to salvage the friendship – that the friendship was more important than anything else.

Wilson let go of his arm and ran a finger along the curve of House's jaw, prickles tickling his skin. House's gaze tracked the finger until it fell below his range of vision, and then he closed his mouth and regarded Wilson, leaning away only because of the way he had placed his cane. Wilson couldn't tell if he were disconcerted by the gentle touch the way he normally seemed to be; perhaps House was hiding his reaction behind that perfect impassivity. Except he wasn't impassive; he was…hurt, maybe? The expression he wore was unfamiliar.

Wilson let his hand drop and wondered if that was relief crossing House's otherwise still features. "Tell me you're not giving up."

House turned bewildered and aborted himself mid head shake. "I…on what?"

"Anything," Wilson replied. Then he shrugged and amended, "Everything."

House squirmed for a second and then inched back a little bit. "What's…what are you doing?"

Wilson shook his head, any one of a million possible responses swimming in his head. What he actually said was, "Tell me we're gonna be okay. Don't just say it because you think I want to hear it – say it because it's true."

House finally bristled, and Wilson was actually relieved to see a comparatively familiar response. "Since when have I ever said anything just to appease you?"

"You do it a lot," Wilson replied; in fact, he vaguely recalled saying that once before. Tellingly, House did not argue.

House shrugged and made an obsession out of smoothing his t-shirt over his abdomen. Then he glanced up at Wilson and the walls slammed down right before Wilson's eyes.

Wilson lowered his gaze and let his hand creep up to tug at the back of his neck. "I didn't… Shit."

"You want me to make it all better or something?"

Wilson glanced at him without raising his head, and then averted his gaze again, suppressing the urge to cringe. "Go on and get it over with. Tell me how pathetic I am."

"S'not pathetic," House mumbled.

Wilson looked at him, really looked, and he didn't see the anger he had been expecting. In fact, maybe anger had never been there to begin with because all he saw now was insecurity. Wilson spread his hand out over House's abdomen and played his fingers over the patch of fabric that House had just been fiddling with. "But you can't say it, can you."

House dropped his eyes to Wilson's hand, one eyebrow quirked, and Wilson retracted it. "Sorry; I left my crystal testicles in my other pants."

Wilson blinked, then rolled his eyes, but there was very little true amusement in the gesture. "I'm not asking you to predict the future. I'm asking how you feel right now."

Under his breath, House muttered, "Right now, I _feel_ annoyed." Then his gaze flickered away.

Wilson passed a hand over his eyes, then held it out. "We could get dinner first, if you want. Or…or drinks. Whatever you need to make you more comfortable. I don't want this to turn into our usual 'discussions.'"

"You keep telling me not to drink. I'm on too many drugs."

"Yeah, well." Wilson shrugged. "Has that ever stopped you?"

House glowered at him but didn't make eye contact. "Yes. I don't like it when you pout."

Wilson blinked. "Oh. That's…thanks."

House heaved a sigh and then wandered off to the couch. He seemed to contemplate sitting, but his eyes roved over the turmoil of his belongings strewn all over the sofa cushions, and he settled for leaning back against the back of the couch, his right ankle crossed over his left, grinding his cane into the carpet like a rubber pestle. "Are _you_ giving up?"

"I'm trying not to," Wilson replied. "I just feel like I need a little incentive here."

"So…" House stopped playing with his cane and peered off into the distance of the darkened kitchen. He gestured haltingly between them and asked, "This isn't incentive enough?"

Wilson looked down and bit his lip before shrugging. "House, I don't even know what _this_ is. I mean, what are we doing with each other?" He lifted his head to find House watching him, remote but attentive. "Where do you see this going in five years? Are we just fucking around and fooling ourselves, or is this…" He moved his shoulders uncertainly. "…something else?"

House chewed the inside of his cheek and averted his gaze when Wilson wouldn't look away first. His eyes alit on Wilson's coat under his hand, so he picked at it.

"You can't answer?"

"I don't want to answer before you do."

"Ah." Wilson nodded. "You're hedging your bets. You don't want to risk putting yourself up for ridicule."

"I don't really see how you can blame me," House replied. His inflection made the words sound like they should have been biting, but House merely seemed resigned at this point. "You have a longstanding habit of leading people on."

"I've never led you on."

"I'm not just your jerk friend anymore. The context…changed. You might."

Wilson licked his lips. "You really have such a low opinion of me in a relationship?"

"It's not your fault," House replied with a hint of force. "I'm probably biased. I've watched you do this…this thing for fifteen years now. There's a pattern."

"Okay." Wilson nodded even though that stung, but he had promised himself long before he came inside that he wouldn't let this degenerate into pointless bickering and passive aggressive attacks, at least not on his own end. So he answered his own question first. "This is something else. _I_ think this is something else."

House frowned and inspected his hand where it curled over the head of his cane.

Wilson raised his eyebrows. His voice bordered on hoarse when he prompted, "Your turn."

"I don't wanna play this game." House fidgeted without making it obvious, but Wilson recognized the telltale signs: the minute twitch in House's cheek, hidden by scruff; the way he shifted his weight even though he didn't need to; the guarded, mute look in his eyes that concealed a deeper discomfort with the situation.

Wilson pushed off the desk but stopped there and shoved his hands in his pockets. If House were a girl, he wouldn't hesitate to stride over and embrace him, but House wouldn't react well to that. "This isn't a game, House."

House nodded, but not in agreement; it was a sort of private affirmation. And then he did the worst thing he could have, in Wilson's mind, because it was like he was trying to pick a predictable fight just so that Wilson would go away in a huff. He twisted his torso and dug his pills out of his pocket.

Wilson pursed his lips at the click of the bottle cap, and then abruptly snatched them before House could take one. "You're deflecting."

"Jesus, Wilson." House flopped back against the couch without bothering to try to get his pills back. "What the hell do you want from me? I'm _trying_."

Before he could really think better of it, Wilson snapped, "I don't see why it should be so damn hard!" He was about to say something else – beg House to explain what the hell he was thinking, why they were so distant all of a sudden, but House beat him to speaking.

"It's not easy to just…" House shifted on his feet, turning his head to hide the grimace that the movement engendered. Then he flared his nostrils and glared at the wall next to Wilson.

"You weren't like this with Stacy," Wilson suddenly pointed out. He didn't know why it occurred to him just then, but it did.

House balked and then gave a wry snort. "Stacy's like…a fem-bot." Then he smirked to himself.

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Is that supposed to make sense to me?"

House rolled his eyes to one side. "She didn't give a damn how I was _feeling_." He spit out the 'f' word as if it really were dirtier than the other 'f' word. "And she didn't annoy me by asking every ten minutes." House paused, then screwed his mouth up to one side. "Yeah, that makes her sound like a cold-hearted bitch. It wasn't like that. Except for thing with my leg." He hooked his index finger at his thigh. "She was a bitch for that." Then he scowled. "Dude, you've seen Austin Powers. I made you sit through it."

"So you're saying that Stacy has killer tits, and that makes all the difference in the heartfelt conversation department."

"They're called 'jubblies.' And no," House snapped. Then he turned introspective. "Well, yeah, she did, but no. I mean we didn't _have_ heartfelt conversations. There wasn't any reason for it."

Wilson groaned something that tried to be words and stuck a hand on his hip, the other digging at his forehead. This was what he got for asking House to have a serious talk. "House, come on."

"We didn't talk about shit," House insisted.

Wilson tipped his head, dubious. "So your entire relationship with her was predicated on sex? I know you two fought – you took out half the neighborhood as collateral damage."

"Yeah," House drawled; he accompanied that with an exaggerated nod. "We fought a lot. But so what? You and I fight a lot too."

Wilson gave him a look.

"What?!"

Wilson let out an exasperated sigh and wandered back to slump against the desk. "This isn't working."

House scowled and made an impatient sound, then flapped his free hand near his waist. "You don't talk to me either, you know. You don't tell me when something's bothering you, or if you've had a bad day. I have to guess, or go through your stuff." He scratched at his cheek though it didn't seem as if it itched. "I don't know what to do with you when you're…" He sifted through the air with his hand, then settled on, "…civil."

Wilson's mouth twisted in a fatalistic smirk. "Seriously?"

House tucked his chin and tried not to look at Wilson. "Don't look at me like that."

"House, you never want to hear it when I've got a problem."

"It's interesting that you think that, seeing as how I always pry into your life when I can tell something's wrong."

"The mockery and snide remarks sort of detract from the aura of caring."

"Why would I bother if it didn't matter?"

Wilson's nose twitched and he leaned back against the desk on one hand. Parts of what House was saying reminded him of the things Olivia had said earlier, and Wilson wondered just how much House had been talking to her lately. It hurt to think that House, the king of seclusion, would talk to a stranger in a hated profession rather than just confide in him. "I know you care, House. That's not the point."

House glared at him. "Then what the hell is?" He craned his neck to find something else to look at, and settled on the window.

"We used to actually talk to each other about things – "

"You never did."

"Shut up, already!" Wilson made a frustrated sound, his tongue tangled behind his teeth, and then threw his hand at House. "You're right. I want before too. Because before, when you had a problem, you'd drag your feet and let it hit critical mass, but at least at _some_ point, you'd come to me!"

"Wilson, for Christ's sake." House bit the tip of his tongue, then snapped, "You never wanted to hear what I was really thinking – not before, and not now. Even when I tell you the truth, you don't believe me – and I do that a hell of a lot more often than you think."

Wilson laughed. "That's _so_ not true."

"See?" Anger suffused House's form, but not his voice; he kept that level. "No matter what I say, you just cut me off and tell me I'm deflecting or projecting, or whatever psych word-of-the-day popped up on your calendar. I don't bother anymore; you're just gonna ignore me and _tell_ me what I think."

The discussion was spiraling out of Wilson's control, but he could never seem to help himself when House got one of his ideas stuck in his head. "House, you don't communicate. You make vague statements and crack rude jokes, or you deflect and get cranky – it gets to the point where I just don't want to deal with you anymore because all you're gonna do is snap or insult me. I cut _that_ off – "

"Yeah, you _deal_ with me," House bit out. "Just admit you don't actually give a crap, and I'll get out of your hair so you don't have to _deal_ with me anymore."

Wilson chopped a hand through the air, smiling in an ugly fashion, but his expression melted a moment later like a wax figurine in the sun. Softly, Wilson said, "I don't _deal_ with you. I didn't mean it that way." He paused long enough to glance up; House was staring at him from behind hooded eyes. "I don't want to fight. We both have issues. I just… I want to… If we can't talk to each other, then…" He shrugged. "Then none of this is going to last. Not the relationship, not even the friendship." Wilson stared back until House saddened and lowered his eyes. "_Talk_ to me, House. I know something's bothering you. I want to help."

"You have no idea…" House's mouth worked over the search for proper words, but nothing more came out.

Wilson swallowed to hear the hopelessness in his voice. "I don't have any expectations."

"Sure you do." The words were biting, but somehow fond. "You have nothing but."

"You're doing it again," Wilson pointed out, slightly desperate. He backed off, both in tone and in posture. "Just…say it. Whatever it is, I promise, I'll help you."

"Wilson…" House raised his head and examined an unremarkable section of the ceiling. Then he shook his head in frustration and glared at Wilson. "If I let you…know things…it'll be just like all the other people you sleep with. The second you see something you can fix, you'll turn into James Wilson the Boyfriend, perfectly tailored to my individual needs, and then…" He shrugged. "And then everything's all about me, and it's over."

"So you think that if you let me help you, it'll destroy the relationship."

"Patterns." House made a face at the carpet, and then snarked, "Can't we just talk about you?"

"Okay." Wilson shrugged. He had noticed over time that House responded to mutual disclosure, but never so often as he had done these past six months with Wilson. "I'll go first, if you want. Ask away."

House nodded, one sharp downward jerk of his head, then squirmed. "Um. How's therapy going?"

Wilson gave him an irritated look. "You don't actually have anything to ask; you're just deflecting attention to me."

House cast his gaze elsewhere, his nostrils flared. "I'm hungry. You said we could get dinner first."

"Why is this so difficult for you?" Wilson demanded. He didn't mean to be terse, considering he _had_ said that they could eat if it helped, but his patience with House had, oddly enough, never lasted long.

"I told you," House snapped back, and then immediately looked contrite. He mumbled when he went on. "I don't talk about it."

Wilson's brow knit together until his thoughts wended back to the fight in the hallway, when House had bodily barricaded the bedroom door. Wilson tried to remember what they had been yelling about, but in all honesty, their shouting matches tended to blur together. Over on the other side of the room, House looked so unhappy, though, that Wilson couldn't bring himself to demand a better explanation right now. Even though it had been a decoy, Wilson said, "I could go for a burger. Or…room service?" He added a coy smile to that option.

Thankfully, House smiled back, though he looked faintly ill when he did. He also looked grateful.

"Okay." Wilson attempted to hide his disappointment but House probably knew it was there whether Wilson showed it or not. He straightened from his perch on the desk and asked, "Since we're here, do you need anything?" He waved an arm at the disarray and considered offering an empty apology for this entire mess, but House would just call him an idiot for saying it.

"Pillows," House replied. At Wilson's bewildered look, he shrugged, sheepish. "The hotel pillows smell like bleach."

Wilson nodded; it was odd, but he knew dozens of people who brought their own pillows to hotels. "I'll grab them. Wait here." Wilson made his way down the hall, gingerly stepping over detritus. They would have to call a service to clean all of this up; there was just no way to handle it on their own. Wilson pursed his lips and climbed into the bedroom, then leaned across the bed to snag both their pillows and the decorative shams. On an impulse, he also grabbed the quilt that House kept folded over the footboard. Then he turned around and nearly threw everything as he jumped. "Oh! Hoh… House, you scared the shit out of me."

House took a careful step backwards, a strange expression on his face. "Sorry." His eyes roamed to capture the utter chaos of his bedroom, and then he licked his lips and looked back toward the living room. "If I went back to Ngyen, would you be happy again?"

Wilson drew back, then twisted to set the pillows back down. He took care to answer because he didn't want House to get the wrong idea. "I would like it if you gave Ngyen another chance, yes." He took a breath and held it for a second. "But if that's not what you want to do, then it isn't going to make me happy." He looked up to gauge House's reaction – blank, stony face – then added, "You can't substitute medicine for talking, House. Going back on Ngyen's plan won't make me drop the other things. It's not a bargaining chip."

"Mm." House dropped his gaze and nudged at a broken picture frame with the tip of his cane, the photo of old surgical tools.

Wilson tilted his head and dropped down on the edge of the bed, silent. House kept pushing things around the floor, though, so Wilson gently prodded, "What is it?" He felt like he had been asking that question for eons.

House gave an uncomfortable full-body shrug and left off, planting his cane firmly next to his foot to lean on it. "Nothing. I don't want burgers."

Another delaying tactic, but Wilson didn't call him on it. "Pizza? Chinese?"

"No." House belatedly shook his head after he said it, like the word wasn't enough.

Wilson narrowed his eyes. This wasn't right; House's affect was all wrong. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing," House insisted; it sounded a bit like a whine.

Slowly, Wilson guessed, "But only because you can't talk about it." Wilson purposefully changed House's _don't _to _can't_ to see if he would catch it.

House swallowed and threw his gaze back toward the living room – his escape route.

This was…disturbing. "Can you give me a ballpark?"

"There's a Thai place on the way to the hotel. They have that spicy thing with the peanuts."

That wasn't what Wilson had meant, but he was pretty sure House knew that. "Yeah, I know where it is. The Happy Food Kitchen." Wilson had ordered from there quite often when he had resided at the hotel. He was pretty sure that the owners hadn't realized how ridiculous that name was when they translated it from Thai to English. "Good prices."

House nodded and sucked both lips between his teeth.

Just to break the oppressive silence, Wilson said, "We can call from the car."

"Good." House fidgeted for another few seconds, then turned and picked his way back down the hall.

Wilson watched him slip out of sight, then turned his head to demand answers from the bedroom wall. This wasn't good, whatever it was. Olivia had told him to push it; she had read that file and dug around, and she knew something. Really, Wilson had never thought that it would be a pleasant event, but this didn't seem like a run-of-the-mill skeleton in the average person's closet. Guns and shouting matches and two months of silence, a pile of old letters, House locking himself in a room for an entire summer… Wilson had never actually stopped to wonder what sorts of things might lead a twelve year old boy to isolate himself like that, to refuse to come out unless his parents left the house.

Wilson glanced down at the pillows beside him and then gathered them up. Thai food and the safety of the hotel room sounded indescribably wonderful right now. He only hoped that the unease coiled in the pit of his stomach would let him eat.

* * *

Apparently, they weren't talking anymore. Or at least, House wasn't. Wilson stole a glance at him and found him obsessed with the visor mirror again; about five minutes after leaving 221B, House had started fiddling with it and angling it to see out the back windshield. "Seriously; you're gonna break it."

House adopted his best sulking toddler voice and replied, "Am not." While keeping Wilson in his periphery, he reached for the visor again, purposefully trying to provoke him.

"God, you're worse than a five year old." Wilson shooed his hands away and snapped the visor up.

House smirked to himself and turned to stare out the side window, his eyes wandering across the buildings they passed. Then he perked up at an illuminated marquis. "Oo! Hey, I wanna see that. We should catch a movie."

"We already ordered food." Wilson swayed lightly as the car bumped over an uneven patch of pavement.

"So? We'll sneak it in."

Wilson balked. "In what? Your pants?"

"No room left in mine. How about yours?"

Wilson pursed his lips. "Nice." Then he shook his head. "Look, since we're stuck in here, can we talk about something serious?"

House glanced at him, then snapped, "No. We're getting food first." He blinked at the passenger side mirror and then twisted to look out the back window.

"What is it?" Wilson peeked at the rearview mirror, but nothing appeared out of place; normal Saturday evening traffic flowed around them.

"Nothing." House made a dissatisfied face at some ambiguous irritant that only he could see, then slumped down in his seat with his hand covering his bad thigh. "Can't you drive any faster?"

With endless patience and his gaze fixed firmly on the road, Wilson replied, "The posted limit is thirty five. I'm going thirty five."

"Mm." House glared out the window for a while, then at his mirror, and then he flipped the visor down again.

Wilson reached for the visor. "House – "

"I won't break it," House insisted, smacking at Wilson's hand. Then he muttered an irritated, "Priss," under his breath.

Wilson sighed forcefully and made faces out the windshield. "You know, we _could _be using this time for something constructive."

House turned from the passenger side mirror to treat Wilson to an impregnable, bland expression. "Road head?"

Wilson started, flushed, and then barked, "No! House, focus. We need to work a few things out – serious things. I _know_ you have trust issues, you always did, but we can't go on like this. You need to open up to me." Wilson tilted his head and acknowledged, "Frankly, so do I; I need to work on the whole communication thing, too. I know that. But I can't exactly do it unless you cooperate." Wilson threw a few random glances in House's direction. "Are you even listening to me?"

House swiveled his head in Wilson's direction. "Huh?"

"Ass." Wilson scowled at the road, annoyed and frustrated – and how the hell could House always manage to play normal like that? He had turned twelve different kinds of disconcerted back at the apartment not ten minutes ago, and now here he was, aggravating Wilson the way he always did. Did he just have that much practice at faking it? If so, Wilson wondered how often House had faked it and no one had noticed that he was a hot mess inside.

"Um…Wilson?"

"Yeah, House?" Wilson flipped on his blinker and then checked his side mirror before merging into the curb lane. He hated the parking lot at the Happy Food Kitchen; it was one long stretch of concrete slab overlapping the sidewalk with such short parking spaces that he feared some less-than-adept driver would clip his rear bumper, or plow into him when he tried to back out.

"Don't pull in; keep driving."

"What? Why? House, you can't change your mind; I already gave them my credit card number over the phone. It's as good as paid for."

"Just keep going. Somebody's following us."

Wilson started and then leaned up to study the image in the rearview mirror. He pressed his lips together. "You're imagining things."

"I'm telling you, we're being followed!"

Wilson rolled his eyes toward House with a tolerant expression on his face, more amused than anything else. "I'm not falling for it, House. I've known you for too long, and I'm not going to let you make a fool out of me."

"Why can't you ever just listen to me? The black SUV, Wilson." House threw his hand in the direction of the car behind them. "It's been tailing us ever since we turned off of Baker. Look in the damn mirror!"

Wilson's brow furrowed. Incredulous, he realized, "You're serious." Then he made a face and switched his blinker on again, braking to turn into the driveway. "House, this isn't the movies. Drug gangs don't just pop up in Thai food parking lots with loaded guns and start shoot – Hey!"

House lunged over the center console and grabbed the steering wheel, then mashed his cane down on Wilson's right foot, slamming the gas pedal down with it.

"House, what the hell!?" Wilson jabbed his elbow into House's ribs with all the strength he could muster, but he had no room to maneuver. "Let go! Let the fuck go – you're gonna get us killed!" They blew past the Thai restaurant and careened toward the next intersection. "House, it's yellow – the light's yellow!"

"Just watch where you're going!"

They jostled each other, fighting over the wheel as the light switched to red right above them, and Wilson gave a wordless shout that sounded half terrified, half spitting mad. Last time House pulled this shit, Wilson had gotten arrested. The car bounced and the rear bumper scraped the pavement. Wilson twisted one of his arms free and then threw his weight to the right, knocking House into the passenger side door. The Volvo fishtailed but Wilson wrenched the steering wheel in time to keep from spinning out. With a loud expletive, Wilson snatched House's cane and flipped it into the back seat, gratified to notice House duck when the handle sailed over his head, and then tires squealed loudly behind them.

On reflex, Wilson glanced up at the rearview mirror in time to watch the black SUV run the red light, swerving past two cars that had the right of way. He felt himself blanch as it accelerated toward them. "Oh shit."

"See? I told you so!"

Wilson stared grimly out the windshield. "Not now, House."

"Turn here." House pointed to the right. "Turn, turn – _turn_!"

"Stop side seat driving!"

"Don't slow down! You have to lose them in the side streets – you can't just keep going straight, you idiot!"

Wilson's knuckles went white on the steering wheel. "I don't do the car chase thing!"

"I know; I've seen you play Grand Theft Auto."

Wilson rolled his eyes and groaned through clenched teeth. "This is so _not the time_!"

"Right, sorry." House contorted himself in the passenger seat and fumbled his cell phone out of his jeans pocket.

Wilson glanced over, but he was too terrified to take his eyes off the road for long. "Who are you calling?"

House gave him a look. "The Pope. I thought he could pray for your heathen soul."

"God, House – not now!"

"The police, moron." House punched in a few numbers, probably 9-1-1, and raised the phone to his ear. "That _is_ who I'm supposed to call when drug dealers come after me, right?" He glared at Wilson. "And _turn_ already! You're supposed to try to shake them."

"Yeah, okay, fine." Wilson swallowed over the tremor that had claimed his voice and tried to control the way his limbs shook. A light was coming up and it was green, so he flipped his right turn signal and hoped his tire treads weren't too worn. Not slowing down went against every grain of his good driver persona.

House glanced at him, then exclaimed, "What are you doing? Don't turn on your blinker!"

"Quit yelling at me!" Wilson sounded more frazzled and pissed off than House. At the intersection, he hooked a sudden left instead, and squeaked at the horn that blared in his wake. "Sorry, sorry – "

"Quit apologizing."

"Sorry!"

House started to retort, but the phone distracted him. "Um, yeah, hi. You might remember me – I'm Doctor Greg House. You were at my apartment last night, molesting my piano with your CSI team?"

Wilson scowled at him; so he had called the detective directly. "House, be nice."

"I am being nice." House gave him a beguiling look, then went back to the phone. "Yeah, that's right. Here's the thing. I'm in a car with Doctor Wilson, and some guy is sort of chasing us." House listened for a second, then turned to Wilson. "He wants me to define 'sort of'."

Wilson ignored him because the intersection ahead was blocked by a red light. His eyes tracked left and without so much as a word of warning, he spun the wheel and plunged into an alley.

House fell against the door and swore luridly to express his displeasure. Then he twisted in his seat to peer past the headrest.

"Did they follow us?"

House replied, "You better hope this isn't a dead end."

"Fuck."

House grunted and brought the phone back to his ear. "I don't think it's a 'sort of' anymore." His eyes moved at random while the detective spoke, as if he were looking for a corresponding face to scrutinize. "Yeah…okay, yeah." He pivoted the phone so that the mouthpiece rested on his cheek, and asked Wilson, "Can you get to the highway?"

"The highway? Why? No! I don't want to have a car chase on a highway – this is bad enough!"

"You could run into a pedestrian if you stay in the city, moron. Or a red light, or a traffic jam, and then we'd have to stop."

A demented laugh dribbled past Wilson's lips, and then he demanded, "What if they have one of those – those soupy engine things, like a hot rod, and they can go faster than us – "

House blinked himself into a wide-eyed incredulous face and told the detective, "Yeah, we can get on the highway."

" – and then they'll ram us into a ravine – "

"No, he's always like that. He's fine; trust me."

Wilson just kept muttering for his own benefit. " – and firebomb the wreckage, and then toast marshmallows over it – meth-infused marshmallows." He tapped the brake as he reached the end of the alley, then chanted, "No pedestrians, no pedestrians, no pedestrians…"

House jabbed a finger out the windshield. "Mailbox!"

"Mailbox!" Wilson swerved and barely missed it, then jarred them over the curb and wobbled the car into traffic. Miraculously, they didn't hit anyone else. "Oh-hoh! Yeah!"

House grinned at him, and even though Wilson was emphatically _not_ pleased, he couldn't help but grin back, his heart pounding in his throat. Wilson switched lanes and dodged around the slower traffic, though he stifled a cringe to see that going barely forty five miles per hour could leave him so breathless. Behind them, the SUV weaved back and forth, not closing on the them but impossible to shake. The freeway ramp loomed ahead of them and Wilson inched the accelerator down, praying that the light would stay green; he didn't think he had it in him to run a red, not with so many other cars on the road.

House was still mumbling into the phone; it sounded like he was giving the detective a running commentary on where they were. As Wilson flew past the intersection and hit the incline of the ramp, House turned to him. "There's a rest stop about ten miles from here. The cop says state troopers are going to meet us there. Just stay ahead of the SUV, but try not to lose him."

"Luring the drug dealers into a trap," Wilson mumbled. "Got it." He stared out the windshield, intent, and then signaled his way into interstate traffic amidst House's grumbling about blinkers. Wilson raised a finger and ordered, "Shut it."

"Go faster, Wilson."

"I'm going seventy! I'm speeding enough, okay?"

"They're right fucking there!" House pointed past Wilson's face at an SUV two lanes over. "You're supposed to keep an eye on the guys chasing you, moron."

Wilson glanced to the left, then swore. "Are you sure? It could be another SUV – all sorts of people drive SUV's." He looked again as the SUV cut somebody off to merge a lane closer. "Okay," Wilson conceded, "that's probably them." He nudged the accelerator down. Beside them, the SUV drifted over another lane. Now they were half a car-length behind the Volvo, and Wilson craned his neck to get a glimpse of the occupants. "They don't look very nice."

House spoke into the phone. "I can't tell. Caucasian, maybe? It's dark out, there's glare…no, they don't have a front plate. Hey, isn't that a ticketable offense? Can you give them a ticket?" House paused and gazed off into nothing for a second. Then he said, "Yes, actually, that _would_ make me happy."

Wilson snickered, but it sounded sort of hysterical. The SUV was gaining on them, pulling up alongside, and even though that would afford Wilson a better view of their pursuers, he couldn't shake all the mental still frames of action movies where some bad guy leaned out a car window with an uzi and pulverized some other guy's face. Wilson tromped the accelerator, plastering himself and House back into their seats, and then he cut in front of the SUV. "Where's the rest stop?"

House pointed at a sign they were passing. "One mile…" He trailed off and then made a face at the phone. "What do you mean, stall them? Are you serious? I told you exactly where we were, the whole time – you said to get on the highway!"

Wilson's heart lurched in his chest. "They aren't there yet, are they. The troopers?"

House threw him a helpless look, tinged in something akin to fear. Then he looked away and grew even more flustered while he listened to the detective. Suddenly, he became furious. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! I'm a cripple – I can't _run_ into the damn building! I can't _run_ anywhere!"

"House, it's okay." Wilson reached out to lay a comforting hand on House's forearm just as he delivered a few more lewd remarks and slammed the phone shut. If the window had been open, House probably would have lobbed it from the car. With one eye on his mirrors, and on the SUV that was weaving to catch up to them, Wilson promised, "We'll get out of this." He cast a forlorn glance at the rest area exit ramp as he swerved and passed it by.

House collected Wilson's fingers from his arm and put them back on the steering wheel. "He said ten minutes. Nobody will be here for ten minutes."

"It'll be fine," Wilson insisted, as much for his own sake as for House's. He could see the SUV again, rolling along right behind them, and without thinking about it, Wilson wrenched the wheel and sent them flying into the emergency lane.

House gave a startled yelp and grabbed the door handle to brace himself as the right tires hit grass and slid, tossing them both roughly to one side. Wilson wrestled the car back under control and then shot forward, illegally passing slower traffic while a damn rumble strip vibrated and roared under his side of the Volvo.

Wilson tried to glance over his shoulder but it took all his attention to keep the shaking car from spinning out. "House, where are they?"

House twisted and grabbed Wilson's headrest to pull himself around, his feet braced awkwardly against the floor and console. "Dunno. I don't see them, but we're sorta hard to miss right now."

"Yeah," Wilson muttered. He thought about trying to worm his way back into traffic, but the last thing they needed was to get lost in the New Jersey countryside, far away from their police. "Hang on." Wilson gripped the steering wheel as it threatened to slide from between his fingers and sent the Volvo rocketing down the burm of an exit ramp, past stopped traffic and toward a red stoplight.

"Fuck." House hunched down in his seat and grabbed whatever he could to wedge himself in place. "Go, Wilson…go go go…"

Wilson let out some sort of geeky battle whoop – he refused to call it a terrified shriek – and missed getting plowed into by a semi by inches. "Oh! Oh, yeah!" He pumped the steering wheel and ignored horns blaring all over the place as the Volvo skidded into a left turn, just like in the movies.

House was busy swearing next to him, and it made Wilson grin as he dodged stopped vehicles, tires squealing. He plunged through another light to get back on the highway, headed in the opposite direction. As the Volvo shot up the incline, Wilson glanced to the left in time to see the SUV spill off the exit ramp and end up boxed in by the snarl of motorists and the jackknifed truck that Wilson had left in his wake. Then the overpass bridge blocked his view and Wilson slipped into traffic, going the speed limit this time, trying to be inconspicuous.

When they reached the rest stop for the eastbound lanes, Wilson signaled over and wended his way back into the semi-truck parking area. Across eight lanes of freeway traffic, police lights flashed in the parking lot of the westbound rest stop. Wilson maneuvered the Volvo in between two eighteen wheelers and killed the engine, then slumped back with a relieved burst of air. Aside from the tick of the car cooling and the distant hiss of traffic, the only thing Wilson could hear was breathing, his and House's.

"Well." Wilson licked his lips and rolled his head along the back of the seat to look at House. A perfect cliché, Wilson drawled, "I think we lost them."

House's eyes meandered to him, and the leather of his jacket creaked as he settled.

Wilson frowned. Even in the dim shadows, House looked pale, and his eyes stood out from the darkness, too sharply blue. Wilson straightened a little. "You okay?"

House hooked a thumb toward the cheerfully lit building a hundred feet away; people were milling around, families and businessmen, truckers, all of them blissfully oblivious to the plight of two doctors just a few yards away. "I have to pee."

Wilson blinked at him and House stared back, both of them painfully somber. Then they burst into laughter, tension exploding all over the place. Wilson's pulse was still racing, and judging from House's chopped, breathy guffaws, his was too. They settled after a moment, and Wilson gave one last affectionate chuckle before remarking, "Never a dull moment."

"Yeah," House laughed. They both panted for a second, and then House shifted restlessly, his mouth drawing down at the edges. "I'm sorry I got you mixed up in this."

"House, you don't owe me an apology." Wilson shifted in his seat so that he could look at House without sitting up. "You were just trying to do the right thing."

House narrowed his eyes and then looked uncomfortably away. "The kid died."

"That doesn't make what you did wrong." Wilson moved his shoulders and tried to brush off the gravity of the conversation. "Most people would rather turn a blind eye when something bad or unfair is happening, but you…you try to fix it, and damn the consequences." Wilson shrugged and offered him a hapless smile. "That's one of the things I envy about you, House. When it really matters, somehow, you always manage to do the right thing."

House's face froze before he could hide his expression; he looked like Wilson had just gut-punched him instead of paying him a compliment.

Wilson sat forward, concerned. "House?"

House shook his head and rushed to look away, swallowing thickly. In a gravelly voice, he mumbled, "Thank you." He sounded like he sincerely meant that.

Wilson shook his head, bewildered, and murmured, "Sap." Though he wished he knew how such a simple observation could have this strong an effect. Wilson snuck a hand over the center console and squeezed House's fingers. House looked down, and after a brief hesitation, he flipped his hand over and squeezed back. Without letting go, House turned his head away, and Wilson watched sadly as he tried to hide his face against the passenger window. The steady pressure around Wilson's fingers made the whole moment bittersweet.

Eventually, House tugged his fingers free and passed Wilson his cell phone, which Wilson used to call the state troopers across the way. When he hung up, he heaved out a long, weary sigh and sagged back. He tried not to react at all when House's hand crept over to reclaim his fingers, and they simply sat there for a while, hands intertwined, waiting.

As a cadre of police cars finally pulled into the parking lot, House looked at Wilson and remarked, "I really do have to pee."

Wilson snorted and rooted around in the door pocket. "Here." He passed House an empty water bottle. "No throwing my floor mats out the window this time."

--TBC


	29. Chapter 29

It was weird. It was really, truly weird. Wilson was perched rather uneasily against the hood of his car, his eyes following various uniformed troopers and police officers to and fro, interspersed with the plainclothes detective who had taken their statements at House's apartment the day before, and that guy's partner. The detective had stopped over at one point to dryly inform House that yes, charges against the car chasers would include a citation for failing to properly display a front license plate. That had made House smile for about two seconds, but other than that, everyone seemed to have elected to steer clear of them. This evasion probably had something to do with the very obvious way that House was sitting on the hood next to him, holding Wilson's left arm in both of his own. It was just weird.

Wilson tried to appear casual as a woman trooper glanced their way and hid her smile by turning to one side. Apparently, they were cute. But only to the women. The men made an obvious point of not looking at them at all.

House noticed the woman noticing them and hunkered against Wilson's flank as if guarding his territory. "There's a vending machine inside. You want a soda?"

Wilson shook his head. "I think I'm good."

"You're shaking."

"I'm good," Wilson snapped. He regretted his tone, but he didn't say so.

House persisted. "Are you cold? It's sorta chilly out here." He rounded his lips and puffed out an 'o' of mist to demonstrate.

"People are staring."

"Yeah, I noticed." House didn't do anything to remedy that, however. "Gimme a dollar."

"Why?" But Wilson was already digging out his wallet.

"It's way past dinner time. I need to eat something." House snatched Wilson's wallet from his hand, slipped out a few singles, then thrust it back at him. "Be right back."

Wilson hated admitting it, but he was relieved when House let go of him and limped away to obtain junk food. He returned his wallet to his pocket and crossed his arms, but standing there for over an hour was wreaking havoc on his back. He watched House disappear into the vending machine alcove, trailed by a diligent trooper, and then he shoved himself off of the Volvo to find a bench.

Ten minutes later, House leaned over his shoulder from behind and dumped an armload of candy and soda into his lap, scaring the crap out of him. Wilson picked up two packets of Skittles and demanded, "What are you, eight?"

"Maybe."

Wilson tipped his head back to look at House upside down. "You only got these because of the rainbows on the packaging."

House grinned and hobbled around the bench to plop down next to Wilson with a tired groan. "Here." He spread a quilt out over them both, the one that Wilson had stuffed in the trunk of the Volvo along with every pillow from House's apartment. Then House slumped back and shut his eyes for a moment, one hand clenched over his scar.

Wilson's demeanor thawed in an instant. "How bad?"

"About a five. I'm fine."

"Okay." Wilson lifted the edge of the quilt and transferred House's loot to the bench between them. "You're the one with all the experience dealing with cops. Any idea how long they'll keep us here?"

"Probably not much longer. I asked the guy who stalked me to the vending machine." House grabbed a bag of Skittles and ripped it open with his teeth. "They got the SUV, but not the guys who were driving it. There were three of them. They took off on foot when they couldn't get around the semi. That was awesome, by the way." He shot Wilson a cheeky grin. "I totally thought you were about to get us killed."

Wilson snorted and eyed the other bag of Skittles before claiming it for himself. "Only you."

His mouth full of Skittles, House replied, "Yoo luff it."

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Wilson popped an orange Skittle and then sighed at the scene in the parking lot. Police radios squawked at uneven intervals, a rude accompaniment to the flashing of emergency beacons. He felt like no time had passed since they did this at House's apartment – wasted time in the frosty air while dozens of cops milled around acting like two innocent people's lives weren't disintegrating in slow motion right next to them.

House fumbled around under the quilt to move the sodas out from between them, then scooted over until his thigh grazed Wilson's. Wilson watched House's jaw muscles work as he chewed, one scruffy, aging doctor in proximate profile against a blaze of parking lot lights. With a fond smile, Wilson slipped his hand under the quilt and rested it on House's knee. House probably didn't think that Wilson would be able to tell he was smiling around a wad of plasticized, fruit-flavored candy.

"House?"

"Yeah?" House kept on chewing like a cow at his cud, but he flipped his head around to look at Wilson.

Wilson threw a nervous glance toward all the bystanders – people he didn't know, and didn't care to ever see again, but who were nonetheless showing too much interest in the two of them. "I don't like this."

House blinked at him, then gave a curt nod as he looked away. "I know." He swallowed his mouthful of candy and then rummaged around under the quilt until he located his little handheld television. "Here. Find something decent."

Wilson looked at the gadget, then smirked as he took it. "This is somehow very you."

"You're welcome."

Wilson pulled out the antenna and then switched it on. The reception sucked, but he eventually managed to tune into a very fuzzy episode of Jeopardy. Even with the volume set to maximum, though, they could barely hear Alex Trebek over the din of traffic and police business. House glanced down at the screen, grimaced, and then dragged a set of ear buds from one of his zippered jacket pockets. They each took a bud and then Wilson zoned out for a while, listening to the drone of intermittent applause from the studio audience.

After round one came to an end, Wilson noticed House stealing covert glances, at him. "Something you wanna say?"

House shrugged, his face too guileless to be innocent. "Nope." Then he feigned disinterest, gave an overly theatrical yawn, and stretched his arm behind Wilson. He whistled to himself for a moment, then looked at Wilson and gasped, "Oh no! How on earth did this happen?"

Wilson couldn't help but laugh at his antics, despite all the looks they were getting. "You don't fool me, House."

"I don't? Damn." His fingers closed surreptitiously over Wilson's shoulder while he studiously looked the other way. "Think the Thai place still has our food? I feel like spring rolls."

"Doubt it." Wilson squirmed around and tried not to be obvious about how much he appreciated the warmth spread along his shoulder blades. "You know, this is almost cozy."

House lifted an edge of the quilt and peeked in. "Think anyone would notice you giving me a hand job?"

"Don't push it." Wilson gazed through the tiny television screen for a moment, then felt compelled to ask, "Why are you doing this?"

"Your shivering was getting on my nerves."

Wilson peered at the side of House's face, silently willing him to turn his head, which House, of course, did not do. Once it became apparent that House was ignoring him on purpose, one side of Wilson's mouth curled up. "Uh-huh." Then he went back to staring at Jeopardy. Without looking at him, Wilson said, "Thanks, House."

"Don't mention it." House's eyes moved toward him. "Seriously. Ever."

Wilson smiled, small and fleeting. "Got it."

Sometime later, Wilson found himself nodding over the portable TV. House pulled it from his lax fingers and kept on watching, mumbling trivia answers every now and then, and calling the contestants idiots. The arm around Wilson seemed heavier somehow, tugging him in, keeping him all cinched together in one piece. He could smell House all over the place – quilt, shirt, soft Skittle-tinged breath on the top of his head, the lingering hint of hospital antiseptic soap…

House's apartment looked all wrong, somehow. Wilson could see the entire street from where he knelt on the floor, not through a window but through the hole in the front wall behind the piano, like a set on a soundstage. The coffee table sat askew from where Wilson had shoved it, and under his hands, House's ribcage expanded with each breath. Wilson looked down to where his palms were splayed over a mustard-colored button-down of some sort, checkered with long black lines that wavered beneath the pads of Wilson's fingers like tiny thread worms. House was laying on his stomach on the hardwood floor next to an overturned floor lamp. The bulb shined brightly but it wasn't the right color. In fact, it wasn't any color at all; it just touched on angles in the room like a funhouse scheme, too many shadows bleeding off the hues of the furniture, spreading gray in a growing halo around them, leaving only blue and red behind.

House propped himself on an elbow and twisted his head around to look up at Wilson. "You want in on this?"

Wilson followed House's gesture to the little white pills spread out all over the floor in front of him. An empty pill bottle shaped like a gallon jug of milk sat overturned by his elbow. "Yeah, okay. What are we betting?"

House held up a glass sphere.

"Cool." Wilson took the clear ball. He remembered these; one of his nurses had brought in _The Neverending Story_ and its sequelfor the peds patients to watch that week. Wilson peered inside and caught a glimpse of shopping with House for the perfect goblet to stomp on at his third wedding. "You're on."

House grinned and bounced a blue rubber ball, then scooped up a pill while the ball was still in the air. He swallowed the capsule, then caught the ball, and handed it to Wilson. "Your turn. What are you betting?"

Wilson scooted forward and gazed down at the pills, thinking. Then he handed House a photograph of Danny and took his turn. Two pills. He handed House the ball.

"You have to take them."

"But I don't like Vicodin."

"House rules."

Wilson looked at the gleaming white oblongs cradled in his palm, shrugged, and tossed them back.

House picked up another sphere from a very small cache beside the pills. "That one's worth double."

"Uh-huh." Wilson eyed the scene inside. He and House were eating crepes in New Orleans. Black fingerprint dye still stained the pads of Wilson's fingers. "Double?"

"Double," House confirmed.

Wilson looked up in time to watch House swallow three pills and catch the ball. "Do we have to play this?"

"House rules. You can just watch, if you want."

"Okay." Wilson sat back while House took another turn, downing four pills this time, and deftly catching the ball before it bounced again. "Where's my bet?"

House handed him another sphere and Wilson blinked against the image inside. "House, I don't want this one."

"Don't care. That's the one you gave me."

"No it's not." Wilson looked to see if the image had changed, but House still lay in a hospital bed hooked up to ambiguous monitors, alone even though Cuddy was asleep in a chair next to him.

"No takesy-backsy." House bounced the rubber ball, scooped five pills off the floor, and tossed his head back.

Wilson caught the ball and pocketed it. "We have to get out of here."

"Can't." Six pills disappeared this time.

Wilson shook his head; he didn't remember giving the ball back. "Why not?"

House looked at him, then laughed. "I can't leave," he replied, incredulous. Seven more pills shone in the palm of his hand, and House gazed at them the way Wilson wished House would look at him sometimes. The special secret way with the tiny hidden smile, like House thinks no one is looking.

"House."

House looked up, his usual implacable mask back in place, the same as always, even when Wilson deludes himself into believing that House wears anything else.

Wilson held out a glass ball. Inside, he and House were tangled up together, sleeping. Everything in the twinkling sphere looked peaceful. Innocent. House was smiling inside of it, the special secret smile. Wilson's special secret smile. "Wouldn't you rather have this one?"

House's lids lowered halfway, dimming the unnatural blue overtones to the rest of the room. He looked sad. "No."

Wilson looked down too, to find that the image had morphed into snarls of metal bus wreckage and red, with pennies strewn throughout. "I…that's not what it was before."

"Why would I want that?"

"That's not what it's supposed to say!" Wilson shook the ball as if it were a snow globe or an etch-a-sketch, and he could erase it if he tried hard enough. All he got for his trouble was a fuzzy still frame of a haggard-looking Danny staring through a diner window with empty black scribbles for eyes. "No," Wilson moaned, desperate. "No, it's supposed to be good – these are supposed to be good things!"

House held out his handful of seven pills, but they had become pennies at some point. Seven shiny copper pennies. "Maybe you shouldn't have stopped playing."

Wilson glanced at the pennies and then swiped House's hand aside. Pills scattered across the floor, more than just seven. "No, no, _no_!" He squeezed the glass ball, then shook it with all his might, but he couldn't shake it hard enough to make the good thing come back. Dead patients, dead Danny's, dead Amber, dead House. Wilson gave a furious shriek that came out mute and hurled the glass ball out of the apartment, watching as it sailed past the missing wall and shattered into pills and pennies on the sidewalk. Then he whirled around and started snatching pills up off the floor. Every one he grabbed turned into a penny. "I want the other thing," he wailed. "Where's the other thing?!"

"Wilson."

"It was just here – I saw it!"

"Wilson!"

"Nghuh!" Wilson blinked at the parking lot, bathed in tatters of reflected emergency beacons. Blue and red. Traffic hissed beyond the lights, and the sky above that was black.

"Wilson?"

"What…" Wilson pulled away and fumbled himself upright on the bench, disoriented. A few uniformed officers stared at him, frozen in the midst of whatever they had just been doing. "Um…I'm fine. I was just… I'm fine." Puffs of mist came out with every word. The breeze smelled cold.

House peered doubtfully back at him, his handheld television flickering in one hand. "You were yelling."

Wilson passed a quaking hand over his face and tried to swallow back the nausea that threatened to bubble up in the back of his throat. "I have to… I'm gonna be sick." He shoved at the edge of the quilt to get it off of himself and then lurched to his feet, tugging at the knot in his tie as he stumbled around the bench.

"Okay." House cast the rest of the quilt aside and pulled himself up on his cane.

Wilson nodded and hurried toward the nearby lighted building, one hand groping at the back of his neck. Behind him, House's signature gait marked a sharp counterpoint to his own clacking footsteps. French loafers and sneakers.

Thankfully, Wilson didn't get sick in the bathroom, but he hung his head over a sink for a while, splashing cold water on himself at intervals just because it gave him something to do with his trembling hands. He wasn't entirely sure that House had followed him all the way inside until he straightened to find House's lanky form reflected in the mirror, far behind him in the doorway.

"Bad dream?"

Wilson breathed harshly through his nose. "Yeah."

"Anti-depressants can do that. Vivid nightmares, semi-lucid dreaming… You need a solid eight hours for once. I know you haven't been sleeping right." House pushed off the wall and limped up behind him. "Better for now?"

"I think so," Wilson replied, his voice wavering. "When can we get out of here? I want to get out of here."

"I'll check." House started to turn away, then hesitated. "You'll stay here?"

Wilson pointed at the tiles under his feet, his knees weak, breath coming in shallow pants. "Right here."

"Okay. Good." House studied him for a few more seconds, then slowly pivoted and made his way out of the restroom. A trooper showed up in the doorway and House indicated Wilson with a soft gesture, perhaps telling the officer to leave him be or keep an eye on him…something that showed he cared in House-speak.

Wilson watched House's reflection glance over its shoulder before it slipped out of range of the glass. Then he turned around and lowered himself to the floor, trembling from the cold and a cocktail of other things that conspired to make it impossible for him to stand any longer. His thin dress shirt couldn't insulate him from the frigid tiles at his back, but he couldn't care less at this point. He just needed to sit for a while and not think about anything. And after that, he needed House to come back and smile at him, and then take him home.

* * *

House came back at some point to peel Wilson off of the filthy restroom floor, aided by the pretty female police officer who had smiled at them earlier. Wilson felt fuzzy, and he wasn't sure he remembered walking anywhere, but he must have because they poured him into the backseat of his Volvo a few minutes later. It wasn't that he was panicking; far from it. He felt shaky and weak in the knees, like when House had dosed his coffee with amphetamines, but he didn't actually feel anything aside from numb, if numb could be called a feeling.

Why it hit him now, like this, Wilson didn't know. He figured fear had something to do with it, or exhaustion. Maybe he was finally going insane from the sleep deficit he had accumulated. Then he wondered how House survived on catnaps and broken evenings split between the sofa and his bed; Wilson needed his sleep just to function. House, on the other hand, thrived in comparison; he probably just had more experience living like this, two steps away from tumbling past the edge of something.

An indeterminate amount of formless time drifted by, and then House was sitting crammed up against Wilson's outstretched legs, trying to force feed him a pill with the aid of a lukewarm bottle of water that probably came from the stash in the Volvo's trunk. Once he managed to focus enough to figure out what the hell House was doing, Wilson gulped down the pill along with half the bottle of water. He figured it was an Ativan, but he didn't actually ask; it was too much effort to care right now if House was trying to drug him. Not that he suspected House would actually do that; it was just that he felt like he should be suspicious of any overt act of caring where House was concerned. Wilson didn't really like that he still felt that way; House had been nothing but kind lately.

House climbed out of the car after that, awkwardly dragging himself to his feet by the door frame before he hopped to one side, out of Wilson's line of vision. Wilson heard House snarking at some random detective about staying at the hotel any longer, and then House tucked Wilson's legs farther up onto the seat so that he could shut the door. Everything from outside got muffled against the rolled up windows and Wilson floated someplace close to sleep. He didn't know if the Ativan was pulling him under, or if he was just that worn out. Maybe both. He could still hear House's voice, indistinct syllables that sharpened Wilson's awareness every time they reached his ears through the closed door. He felt like he was trapped in one of those glass balls he had dreamed about. If he opened his eyes, would he look up and find himself frowning down through the car window?

A few minutes later, House slid awkwardly into the front passenger seat, closed the door, and immediately leaned forward over his thigh with a hiss of indrawn breath. Wilson lumbered up onto his elbows and peered through the space between the seats, bleary but mostly with it. "House?"

"Just…hang on." House skewed to the right until the side of his head thumped the glass. Wilson watched the back of House's shoulders rise and fall with each shallow breath he sucked in and swallowed, and then he gradually relaxed, sinking into the contours of the seat. "I need my pills back."

"What did you do with…oh." Wilson had taken them from him at the apartment and then forgotten about them. He leaned back so that he could work his hand into his pocket, then extended the bottle over House's shoulder. "Sorry."

House shook his head as he grabbed the bottle, and Wilson stared at the way his hands shook as he fumbled to pry the cap off.

When House knocked two of them back and crunched them furiously between his molars, Wilson averted his gaze and asked, "Are you okay? Do you need something stronger?"

All House offered in response was, "It's just a cramp. Sat in the cold too long." He pulled a face at the objectionable taste of the Vicodin, then went still, his body held just a little bit too taut.

Wilson glanced at the empty driver's seat. "Um. I don't think I'm safe to drive."

"Yeah, I know. I convinced that cop to take us back to the hotel." The strain in House's voice was only obvious because he tried so hard to hide it. Wilson knew him, though, so he could hear the ragged edge to each breath House took, and the subtle nasal quality of his words. "They don't exactly think it's safe anymore, but since the bad guys were staking out my apartment, they probably don't know where we're staying yet. A unit's gonna patrol the parking lot overnight, just in case."

"So they expect us to just stay there?" Wilson demanded. "That's ludicrous. If it's no safer than your apartment, we should just go home."

House shrugged, then tilted his head to gaze out the window. "Sometimes I wish I had more friends. You know? Just twenty people I could call who don't hate my guts. And they'd come over and hang out, and we'd be safe, and we'd mock those idiots for thinking they could get away with breaking into my place, and it wouldn't be a big deal."

Something about the wistful tinge to House's words prodded the haze out of Wilson's forebrain. He couldn't remember House ever actually saying something like that, expressing a desire for a cache of the sort of banal friendships that most other people boasted about having. The way House said it left Wilson convinced that House had never had that, and didn't expect to ever find it. Maybe that was why he always professed his contempt for those social trivialities, like a defense mechanism against childish hopes.

Wilson fumbled his legs around and sat up properly behind House's seat. "We could call people. I bet Chase and Foreman would come."

"For you, maybe." House propped his elbow on the door handle so that he could rest his chin on his fist, eyes still fixed on the flashing parking lot, red and blue lights reflecting in waves across the interior of the car.

Wilson frowned at the back of House's head, disconcerted. He couldn't be sure if it was House's defeatist attitude that disturbed him, or the very slim chance that he was right to think that. "You have friends, House."

House's threw a sidelong glance over his shoulder and challenged, "Name one who isn't you."

Wilson pulled an annoyed face and crossed his arms. "Quit it with the emo shit."

"I'm serious," House insisted. He twisted around in his seat and rested his chin on the headrest. "Name one."

Wilson held up a hand and ticked off, "Chase, Foreman, Cuddy – "

" – punched and fired him, thinks I'm evil incarnate, is a salacious bitch."

"Crandall."

"Mm. Maybe, if he weren't such a gullible idiot."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You're saying he's only your friend because he doesn't know any better. House, that's pathetic. Grow up."

"Stuff it, Wilson. I tricked his girlfriend into giving me a blowjob and he actually bought that I did it for his own good. He's a moron."

Wilson cast a covert smile at the back of House's head because he could hear the residual guilt in House's voice. He knew House had a strong conscience, but it never hurt to hear a reminder now and then. "Fine. How about Kutner?"

"Over-excitable fox terrier."

"That's a lousy reason. Dogs are man's best friend."

"Then I get dibs on Hector."

"Hector's dead."

"Oh." House tilted his head into the window. "Perfect."

"How about Lou the janitor?"

"No. He's a freak."

Wilson blinked. "You can't use 'freak' as a reason he's not your friend. _You're_ a freak too, you know."

"Which explains why you like me."

Wilson smirked, then paused for a moment, his eyes on the ceiling. "Wait a minute. Why do you think Foreman thinks you're evil incarnate?"

House shrugged. "He said so."

"When?" Wilson demanded, incredulous.

House pressed his lips together and righted himself in the seat. "Never mind," he grumbled.

"What, you mean when he resigned?"

"Never mind!"

"House, that was like three years ago – "

The driver's side door opened, effectively cutting Wilson off. A petite police woman dropped into the seat, the one who had smiled at House snuggling Wilson's arm. "Hi, boys. All set?" She contorted herself to get a good look at Wilson. "You seem better."

Wilson offered her a queasy smile. "Thanks."

She went on to inform Wilson, "I'm Officer Morrow. Call me 'Patty' and I'll shoot you in the foot." Then she pulled the car door closed and snatched the seat belt. "My partner's going to follow us in the patrol car, and then we'll stick around the grounds for a few hours. What should I call you two?"

As he was sometimes capable, House pulled a load of charm out of his ass and presented a bright smile to don't-call-me-Patty. "We go by last names too."

"Is that so?" Officer Morrow accepted the keys that House held out for her and turned on the Volvo. "Even with each other?"

"Even in bed," House replied matter-of-factly, like he was delivering a weather report.

Wilson balked. "House!"

House hooked a thumb at the back seat. "Just like that, as a matter of fact." He twisted in the seat to leer at Wilson. "Patience, Moopsie."

"Oh my god." Wilson dropped his no-doubt scarlet face into his hands, then turned to stare out the window.

Morrow chuckled and navigated out onto the highway. Behind them, her partner's patrol car glided along, emergency beacons dark. "You two strike me as not-quite-out yet."

House smiled such that only Wilson could tell it wasn't genuine. "Does it show?"

"Like an eight-month-pregnant woman in a bikini. He's been on the verge of mortified all night, and you've got a personal bubble larger than some third world countries. Even when you've got your arm around him, you look like you're hugging a porcupine."

Wilson cocked his head and peered at Morrow while House blinked in apparent surprise. "Oh," House said. Then he sank into the seat and started picking his lip.

Morrow glanced at House, then cast an apologetic look at Wilson via the rearview mirror before directing her gaze out the windshield again. "Sorry. Professional hazard. I observe too much out loud sometimes."

"No, it's fine," House said, though he sounded anything but. "Doctors get that too."

"If it helps," Morrow offered, "you're cute together. I wanted to take a cell phone pic of the two of you camped out on the bench. That was adorable." Even though it was probably the truth, she seemed to be trying too hard to erase her earlier comments.

House nodded and pressed his forehead to the window, his false amiability shattered. Morrow directed a disgusted expression at herself and then concentrated on driving in silence. When they reached the exit ramp, House fished the handicap placard out of the glove box and hooked it on the mirror without a word. Morrow took the hint and pulled into a space just a few yards down from the main lobby doors.

"Look," Morrow said, shifting in her seat to get a clear view of them both. "I'm sorry. My partner says I have a problem with tact."

Wilson gave her a wan smile and indicated House with a nod. "So does he. It's okay."

House lifted his head long enough to verify that yes, he had just been talked about in the third person, and then he slumped back to his original position with his forehead resting against the window, eyes closed. Wilson frowned at that and then started when Morrow thrust his car keys at him. "I'm going to talk to the front desk," Morrow said. "Fill them in on the necessities. Doctor House, I'm sorry. Again."

The silence stretched just long enough to be impolite, so Wilson piped up with, "It's fine. Thank you, officer Morrow."

Morrow nodded and climbed out, and the second the car door was closed, Wilson grabbed the back of House's seat and leaned over his shoulder. "You didn't have to be rude to her; she's harmless. All you had to do was smile like an idiot and accept her apology. I know you can act like an idiot."

House moved his head so that his nose streaked the window too, and then bit out in a raspy undertone, "I'm gonna gnaw my own leg off if you don't find me some stronger meds in the next ten minutes."

The rest of Wilson's lecture fizzled in his head. "Oh. Uhm." He sat back and rummaged through the pile of pillows and misplaced bedding for House's backpack. Just as he uncovered it, Wilson asked, "What do you have on you?"

"Seven bottles of useless pi-hhills…_fuck_." House's left foot struck the plastic shield under the dashboard, and he thumped a few other limbs against random car parts as he folded over to the right, gulping in huge, tattered breaths as if his lungs were powered by a guttering candle. "…gnhuh…"

Wilson glanced at him, then made a face at the random detritus that House toted around in his backpack on a regular basis. Yo-yo, plastic army men, matchbox cars, GameBoy…one medical journal. "Is this still the cramp?"

"No, it's not a cramp! Does this look like a fucking cramp to you?"

Wilson winced in sympathy, but kept his voice calm and even. "I don't know what it looks like, House. That's why I asked."

House bit off a retort and then gulped over some other indeterminate sound. Wilson figured that the cramp had progressed to localized numbness, giving rise to a bout of neuropathic pain. Even in healthy muscle tissue, a severe enough cramp could cause the prickles to become unbearable.

Wilson sifted the contents of House's backpack through his fingers, discarding the various half-empty pill bottles he came across until a label caught his eye. "Depakote? Why the hell do you have a prescription for Depakote?"

House took a shuddering breath and wheezed out, "Eight, Wilson."

An uninvited pain rating always made Wilson cringe. House only offered that information preemptively if a truly bad moment was coming. "Okay. We'll come back to that. Would it help to walk it off?"

"If I could walk right now," House snapped, "I wouldn't still be sitting here."

"Yeah. I was just asking." Wilson patted himself down in search of his cell phone, then stuffed his upper body between the front seats so that he could paw at the cup holders and the various trays, shelves and compartments in his dashboard. Finally, he found his cell phone in the ashtray, which he never used, and fell gracelessly back into the rear seat. "I'm going to call in a script, and then I'm going to find someone to pick it up for us. Okay?"

"That's gonna take more than the seven minutes you have left," House choked out.

"It wouldn't be an issue if you carried rescue meds with you."

"I don't like the Fentanyl!" House barked, temper rising even though it wasn't necessarily directed at Wilson; he just happened to be a convenient object at the moment. "How many times do I have tell people that – fucking stupid medication – I wouldn't need rescue meds if some idiot doctors had just done their fucking jobs – "

"I know," Wilson assured him while scrolling through contacts in his phone. "But losing your temper isn't going to help."

"I have four more Vicodin in here," House snapped, shaking the pill bottle to prove it. "It won't quite kill me to take all of them and then suck the mini bar dry. Think _that_ will help?"

Wilson looked up from his phone at the pill bottle that House was holding up over the center console, then lunged for it. The surprise attack allowed Wilson the chance to claw the amber bottle out of House's trembling fist, and then Wilson secreted it safely back in his own pocket.

"Hey!"

Wilson scooted over to the far left side of the bench seat to evade House's attempt to get his pills back. He didn't like the feral glint that seeped into House's eyes at that, and Wilson huddled against the door, shielding his phone while he dialed. When House turned to grope for the seat lever to lay it back and give himself more room to come after his precious pill bottle, Wilson opened his door and backed out of the car. He didn't know if it was the pain or the fear of losing his one avenue of relief that made House suddenly turn on him, but he suspected some brand of the latter. Or perhaps the distraction of the fight itself was worth it just to give himself something to focus on aside from screaming. Wilson knew that House's existence rested on an undercurrent of self-destructive tendencies, probably for just that reason; he simply hadn't seen it in a while.

By the time Wilson slammed the door shut, Chase's line had clicked over to voicemail. Wilson ended the call and scrolled down to Foreman's name in his address book, then yanked open the driver's side door. House looked over his shoulder at the rush of cool air and seemed taken aback to find that Wilson had left the car. He made a grab for Wilson's sleeve over the console but his seatbelt got in the way. House's uncoordinated scrabble to unbuckle himself afforded Wilson enough time to swipe the button on the brim of the door to engage the child locks, and then he shut it and hit the lock button on his key chain remote.

House stopped fumbling to press his thumb into the buckle button and stared at Wilson's door. Then his gaze flickered over the steering wheel and the dashboard, and he seized his own door handle. Wilson rounded the car, watching in disbelief as House wrenched frantically at the door handle and then pounded on the window a few times before he went back to trying to disengage the seatbelt. It was morbidly fascinating and appalling at the same time, watching House fly out of control like that.

"_Hello?_"

Wilson jumped at the greeting in his ear; he had completely forgotten about his pending call. "Foreman. Hi. It's, um…it's Doctor Wilson." Inside the Volvo, House still hadn't managed to free himself, and Wilson could see his shoulders heaving as if he were choking back sobs, silent thanks to the insulated car and the background noise of nearby traffic to drown him out.

"_What's wrong?_"

Was it that obvious? "I need a favor," Wilson replied, and since he was paying attention to it now, he heard the thready tremor cushioning his voice. "We don't have any rescue meds, and House is experiencing breakthrough – "

"_I got it. Are you at his place?_"

"No, the hotel. The police told us it was safer." Wilson stumbled around the car to see what House was doing now, since he seemed to have given up on the seatbelt. "The Residence Inn off of Route One."

"_Yeah, okay. I know where it is._" Foreman rustled around on the other side of the phone line and Wilson heard a sleepy murmur that he took to be Thirteen. It had to be past eleven by now; the police had kept them at the rest area for nearly four hours. Under other circumstances, Wilson would feel bad for disturbing him."_How bad is it?_"

"Bad – it was an eight, I think neuropathic. A cramp set it off. I took away his pills." Wilson reached the passenger door and tapped on the glass, but House didn't acknowledge him; he was too busy tossing things out of the compartment in the center console, searching for god knew what. Then he clawed open the glove box and started digging through that instead, and Wilson mumbled, "Shit. I have to go."

He clicked his phone shut and nearly dropped it, then fumbled to hit the unlock button on his key fob. He kept a pocket knife in the glove box for emergencies, and it seemed a toss up between whether House would use it to attack himself or the seatbelt once he discovered it.

Wilson grabbed the door handle as soon as he unlocked it and shoved House back from the glove box. "House, calm down. House!"

"I can't get it off." House's voice was shaking apart at the seams and he looked up at Wilson with semi-wild eyes. His breath caught on every inhale, interspersed with broken gulps as he swallowed, and shiny streaks reflected the gleam of the parking lot lights on his cheeks. He actually had been sobbing. "You locked me in."

"I know, I know it was cruel. I'm sorry." Wilson knelt against the edge of the car and then caught at House's hands when he immediately went for Wilson's pockets. "No more pills. Foreman's coming, he's gonna bring meds – House, stop!"

House hiccupped and folded over his leg instead, thumbs digging into the puckered flesh hidden under the denim of his jeans.

Wilson reached over him to unbuckle the seatbelt before House strangled himself on it, then snaked an arm under House's chest to keep him from ending up in a miserable heap on the floor. Wilson could actually smell the fear pervading the car, disguised as perspiration. "Shh. House, it'll be okay."

"Mn…fuck you!"

Wilson rubbed circles on his back and pulled him closer, every rigidly held part of him, until House sort of collapsed against him. At the sudden shift of weight, Wilson had to grab the brim of the door to prevent them from falling out onto the pavement. "House, come on. I promise, it'll be okay. Just calm down." He pushed House back up onto the seat, his right arm cinched across House's front, and held him mostly still. House was shivering so hard that Wilson could feel himself vibrate too wherever they touched. At some point, Wilson realized they were rocking back and forth; he had no idea which of them started it.

Of course, Morrow chose that moment to come back, and she froze on the curb. "What the hell happened? Is he alright?" She dropped a hand to her sidearm and Wilson suddenly saw the cop aspect take over as she scanned the parking lot, perhaps looking for her partner.

"He has a medical condition," Wilson told her. He tried to imbue his voice with that nameless sort of arrogance that made people shut up and obey doctors' orders as if the sky would fall otherwise. "It's under control. I'm sure your time is better spent elsewhere."

Morrow left off her practiced scrutiny of the surrounding area and fixed a suspicious stare on Wilson. "It doesn't look like it's under control. I should call for an ambulance."

"I don't need a fucking ambulance," House choked out, then he stifled himself against Wilson's chest. His lips moved against Wilson's shirt and Wilson figured he was talking to himself, telling himself that he was okay.

Wilson tore his eyes from the top of House's head and reminded Morrow, "I'm a doctor. Trust me; he doesn't need an ambulance." Secretly, Wilson wasn't so sure, but he knew that if he put House through the indignity of being seen by a gaggle of nosey EMT's in this state, he would have Wilson's hide after the fact.

Undaunted, Morrow insisted, "I still think I should call this in." She reached for her walkie to make good on that threat.

Wilson followed the movement of her hand, his arms tightening around House's bowed form. "Please! This happens all the time – it's not serious." A lie, but an easy one to tell. "You'll just embarrass him."

Morrow waffled, but she dropped her hand. "At least let me help you get him inside, then. I shouldn't leave you out here alone like this."

Wilson saw that for the ploy it was – an excuse not to let either of them out of her sight until she had determined what was really going on. The fact that she saw through Wilson's fib so effortlessly surprised him because of how much it reminded him of House. Wilson had underestimated this girl; she had played the part of a rookie flake, and he had bought it. "Fine," he sighed. He actually would need a hand getting House up to the room, and he didn't want to stay in the parking lot any more than Morrow wanted them to. "But give us a few minutes, okay? Maybe stand somewhere else."

"Sure," Morrow agreed too readily. "If that's okay with Doctor House." Then she planted her hands on her hips and waited for a response.

Wilson glared up at her but clamped his jaw over any sharp remarks. This was ridiculous – she suspected Wilson of doing something to him. "House." Wilson awkwardly ducked his head toward House's ear. "House, just answer her."

Too softly for Morrow to hear, House sucked in a wet, trembling breath and whimpered, "Make her go away, please, make her go."

Wilson sighed and bent his nose into House's hair. "Officer Morrow, please. Your being here isn't helping."

Morrow flared her nostrils in dissatisfaction, then relented. "I'll wait by the door." Then she paused half-turned toward the hotel entrance. Without looking at either of them, she added, "And it didn't look so much like a 'medical condition' from the security console." She pointed up at a wall-mounted camera, the warning evident in her poise. "Stay where I can see you."

Wilson couldn't resist snapping, "I thought we were the good guys."

"Everybody lies." With that, Morrow retreated to the overhang bracketing the hotel entrance, but she kept them in plain view as promised.

Wilson swore under his breath and then told House, "You should sue her for copyright infringement." He ran a hand through House's sweat-soaked hair and hunched a little closer. "She stole your favorite line."

Without pulling his face free, House mumbled something that sounded like, "Fumphner." He probably meant it as a profanity.

"Exactly." Wilson realized that they had stopped rocking thanks to the way House had braced his feet with one knee jammed up against the glove box. "Hey. Are you okay?"

House shifted in his grasp but didn't try to leave it. In a tiny, gravelly voice, he whined, "Hurts."

"Yeah. Foreman's bringing something for that. Just a few minutes."

House probably only put up with Wilson's false assurances, and the hugging thing, because he was too upset and in too much pain to do otherwise. He sighed in something akin to resignation and sagged against Wilson.

A few minutes later, House's respirations evened out just enough for Wilson to notice. "How are you doing?" Wilson murmured into his hair. "Still an eight?"

House sighed, "No."

Wilson's brows knit together at the drowsiness in his tone. "Are you falling asleep?"

"No."

Wilson nodded though he knew otherwise by the way House's form grew heavy against him. "You know, this sort of somnolence isn't normal. What number are you at now?"

"Not…s'numb." He said it like he expected Wilson to know, as if it were one of those things that Wilson kept track of for him because he couldn't be bothered to do it himself. The same way he regarded grocery shopping or remembering to pay his water bill on time.

"Okay," Wilson said. "That's gotta be better than pain."

House shrugged. "It'll get worse again."

"Yeah." Wilson sighed and rested his cheek on the back of House's head. "Let me know when you can move. We should get you upstairs before it breaks through again." This time, Wilson initiated the rocking because it calmed the racing of his heart. As an afterthought, he pressed his fingers to House's carotid to reassure himself that House wasn't about to have a stroke. "You're at about one-ten now. That's not so bad."

House grunted in response and Wilson shifted his arm so that House could wrap his left hand over his thigh too.

"Can I do anything?"

"Just stop being you for a minute."

Wilson didn't take that as an insult because he was pretty sure that House didn't intend it that way. With a nod, Wilson fell silent, breathing as slowly and evenly as he could manage in the hopes that House would mimic him unconsciously. When House tangled his hand in Wilson's sleeve and looked ready to make himself comfortable right there, hanging half out of the Volvo, Wilson straightened. "Hey." He shook House hard enough to keep him conscious. "Don't pass out on me yet. You can crash in the room, okay?"

House griped something, then squeaked and shuddered.

Wilson started at the sound and ducked his head to peer at what he could see of House's face. "House?"

"Wait – wait a sec…"

"Sorry." Wilson let him settle again, though House remained stiffly curled in on himself. After adjusting his grip, Wilson's roving gaze fell on the pile of pillows and bedding strewn across the backseat. Something dawned on him then. "It's the smell, isn't it. That's why you keep stealing my clothes – I'm your comfort blanket."

"Don't flatter yourself." He sounded more lucid all of a sudden. "You smell like that stupid cologne you think I like."

Wilson grinned. "I guess I should stop wearing it then, huh?"

House paused in the middle of a self-conscious squirm, then sullenly snapped, "No. Jerk."

Wilson took a moment to bask in that, then sobered. "Come on. This can't be comfortable for you."

House lifted his face from Wilson's shirt and squinted at the light over Wilson's shoulder. "Why can't she get lost?"

"Who, Morrow? She's worried. You should be flattered."

"Flattered, huh?" House contemplated something in the middle distance. "Think she'd stick around for a threesome?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Is that all you ever think about?"

"Hey, she thinks we're cute, remember?" House pulled back and quirked his brows suggestively, though his bloodshot, puffy eyes marred the effect. "There's promise there."

"Oh, please." Wilson untangled himself and climbed to his feet, his abused knees creaking the whole way. He winced and then stretched to crack his back before saying, "Wait here. And don't try to solicit her, okay? She's a cop. I'm fairly sure that's illegal."

House called after him, "Only if it's in exchange for overlooking unlawful behavior."

"You are the definition of unlawful behavior."

It took a lot of convincing to get Morrow off their backs, but she finally accompanied them up to their room bearing an armload of blankets and pillows as a gesture of goodwill, then left them be for the night. Wilson made a return trip to the car for the rest of the bedding and House's backpack, but before he went back upstairs, he upended it all over the car seat to see what else House had been hiding from him besides the Depakote. According to the prescription label, it had originally been filled in November, about a month after the mysterious bottle of Xanax that kept popping up in House's apartment. Except that where the Xanax had borne the name of a prescribing doctor Wilson didn't know, the Depakote had come from Cuddy.

Wilson tipped the bottle over in his fingers, clumsy compared to the ease with which House twirled his Vicodin bottle around. Unlike the Xanax, House had obtained refills for the Depakote, which meant that he was actually taking it regularly. Wilson didn't like the implications of this. Off-label, Depakote was indicated for the treatment of chronic neuropathic pain, but it was more commonly used against manic episodes, or for the management of panic disorders. And not the piddly kinds. Depakote was not a first choice of medication for much of anything; it was considered heavy artillery. And if Wilson remembered correctly, it was counter-indicated in patients who also took either Warfarin or Amitriptyline. House definitely took Warfarin to prevent future blood clots, and assuming that House was occasionally compliant with Ngyen's drug plan, he was taking a low dose of Amitriptylineas well. Someone should have been monitoring his blood saturation levels, and Wilson highly doubted that House would suffer that sort of inconvenience. Plus, why get it from Cuddy? If he was taking it for pain management, why didn't it come from Ngyen?

The more troubling thought, for Wilson at least, was that Depakote was also indicated for some types of epilepsy – for complex partial seizures, the kind that House seemed to have been experiencing of late. But House had professed not to have epilepsy. Misdirections and evasions came naturally to House, but Wilson didn't honestly think that he would outright lie to Wilson's face. House had tells for blatant falsehoods too, and since they were rather obvious, he tended to stick to vague half-truths as a means of placating Wilson's worrying tendencies.

Nothing else amongst House's belongings caught his eye, so Wilson shoved everything back into the backpack and shouldered it. He gathered up the last pillow and the quilt that normally sat folded over House's footboard, then locked up the Volvo for the night. Morrow and her partner cruised by as he strode back to the hotel entrance, and though her partner made a point of keeping his presumably homophobic eyes forward, Morrow tilted her head at him. Wilson nodded back with one of his lopsided smiles and went inside for the night.

House had fallen asleep by the time Wilson got back upstairs, his limbs weaved through peaks and hollows of the pile of pillows and blankets that they had already brought up. Wilson stared at him for a little while, then pulled off House's sneakers and covered him with the quilt. Foreman should be arriving any minute now, and Wilson wandered aimlessly around the cramped floor space of the hotel room, stalking his own swirling thoughts like a lion in a circus cage.

The sudden blare of Sir Mix-a-Lot on his cell phone jolted Wilson back to reality, and he made a face at his pocket as he pulled it out. House had been messing with his ring tones again, but Wilson had to chuckle to find that the big butts song had been programmed into Foreman's cell number. He flipped it open and asked, "Where are you?"

"_Lobby_," Foreman replied. "_I'm on my way up._"

Wilson padded to the door and slipped into the hall, propping the door open with his foot. "Good. You can see me from the elevator."

"_Got it._" The line went dead.

Wilson returned his phone to his pocket and lounged in the doorway, one ear tuned to the rather loud rumble of House's breathing. He was one degree short of snoring. Why the hell would Cuddy have given him Depakote? And what made her keep it from Wilson for almost six months? Wilson frowned. The date of the original script roughly coincided with when Wilson had tried to end their sexual relationship under the mistaken impression that House was only with him out of convenience. In fact, Cuddy had to have written it within a few days of House coming back to him and demanding that they sodomize each other (House's exact words). Wilson didn't know if he should be disturbed to learn that just days after they had penetrative sex for the first time, House had run off to find a heavy duty anti-anxiety med. Maybe the timing was just a coincidence.

The elevator dinged at the other end of the hall and Wilson straightened in the doorway as Foreman bounded out. After peering to the right, Foreman spun around and noticed Wilson waiting in the opposite direction. He hurried down the hall and waited until he'd reached the hotel room door to demand, "What the hell has been going on? I got interrogated by some pushy cop when I asked the desk clerk for your room number."

"Don't you listen to gossip?" Wilson stepped back and held the door open. It hadn't occurred to him to warn Morrow that a colleague would be stopping by. "House's place got burglarized last night."

"Apparently I'm not getting the right gossip." Foreman slipped past him and paused at the sight of House ensconced in a pile of soft things like a tiny child in danger of having another nightmare. "He fell asleep?" Foreman turned an annoyed glare on Wilson. "You told me it was an eight. I had to go to three all-night pharmacies before I found one that stocked intravenous morphine."

"Yeah." Wilson snuck a hand up to knead at his neck, his other hand stuffed in his pocket to trace the contours of his cell phone. "It went numb, and then he passed out. It's probably for the best at this point."

Reluctantly, Foreman agreed, "Probably. What was going on when you called me, anyway?" He studied Wilson for a moment. "You sounded spooked."

"Uh." Wilson gave an awkward shrug. "He sort of freaked out in the car."

"Freaked out?"

"Um…I guess he panicked."

Foreman scoffed. "I can't even picture that." He sidled closer to the bed and leaned up on his toes as if House might jump at him.

Wilson nodded because an hour ago, he would have said the same thing. "He came after me when I took his pills." Then Wilson dropped his gaze and confessed, "I had to lock him in the car just so I could call you."

"Hm." Foreman fell back on his heels and turned mock-pensive. "A drug addict attacking the guy who stole his pills. That doesn't exactly strike me as unusual."

Wilson tried to impale Foreman's skull with the force of his stare. "Don't call him that; he was in pain. And when I locked him in, he completely lost it. Hit the window, tore up my glove box… He was shaking so hard he couldn't even get his seatbelt unbuckled."

Foreman frowned at that and circled the bed, careful to tread lightly though if their voices hadn't woken House yet, then stomping probably wouldn't make a difference either. "I thought House was a light sleeper."

"He usually is," Wilson replied. "But…not so much, lately."

Foreman studied House's flank for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, good then. Here." He dug a full prescription bag out of his pocket and tossed it to Wilson. "Save that for a rainy day."

Wilson peeked inside the bag to find a full vial of morphine and a handful of individually packaged syringes. Just the sight of them turned Wilson's stomach a little. He hated that House needed this so often, but he hated more that he was already trying to think of a hiding place House wouldn't find. And it wasn't even that House couldn't be trusted, it was just that House couldn't always help himself. "Foreman?"

Foreman retreated from his clinical visual examination of House and peered at Wilson with vague interest. "Yeah?"

Wilson bobbed his head, indecisive, then abruptly asked, "Do you consider House your friend?"

Foreman tilted his head and regarded Wilson from the corner of his eye like he couldn't believe Wilson would bring something like that up at all. "What?"

After drawing in a deep breath, Wilson repeated more hesitantly, "Do you consider House your friend?"

Foreman hedged, "I consider him a colleague."

"But not a friend?"

"Well, I wouldn't invite him to a housewarming party." Foreman sighed and dropped his gaze. "Look. When I got infected with naegleria, he did everything he could to diagnose me. More, even. And when I've asked for it or needed it, he's given me good advice. Not the advice I wanted to hear, and not nicely, but he gave me the truth, and I appreciate that. I respect him as my boss, as a doctor – "

"So that's a no," Wilson cut in.

Foreman considered him for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm sorry. House is just too…" Foreman shrugged. "…too House."

"Then why go to all this trouble?" Wilson demanded. "You didn't have to come out here."

"I told you I would help if you guys needed it," Foreman replied, his tone a little too harsh to be strictly civil. "I'm not cruel. Just because I don't really like him, doesn't mean I like leaving him in agony. I'm not him, and the man's been through enough already."

Wilson grimaced and nodded. "I suppose that's fair enough."

Foreman cocked his head to one side. "What brought that up?"

"Oh, it was nothing." Wilson gave a nervous chuckle and tried to wave the issue away, smiling in what he knew to be an endearing manner. "Just something he said earlier. It didn't…" Wilson probably should have stopped there, but the formless protective impulse that he often felt on House's behalf simmered too close to the surface. And ever since they left the rest area, Wilson had been plagued with random snippets of thought about how neither of them really had friends anymore – not just House. They had colleagues and acquaintances, but no one to confide in aside from each other. No one who cared out of anything other than an obligation of one sort or another. "Are _we_ friends?" He gestured to himself and Foreman.

Foreman narrowed his eyes. "Are you on something?"

Wilson balked. "No. It's just a question."

"You keeping a tally?"

Wilson pursed his lips. "Never mind. I'll take that as a no."

"I'm not denying it," Foreman said. "I just want to know why you're asking all of a sudden."

Wilson groaned in exasperation and admitted, "Because House made a comment earlier, and it got me wondering why we're staying in a hotel instead of with friends. And the answer is because neither one of us has any actual friends to go to."

Foreman's jaw worked for a second, and then he cleared his throat and looked away.

"Sorry," Wilson rushed to say, one hand raised to ward off whatever Foreman might be thinking. "I shouldn't be dumping this on you. Just forget I said it."

"Right." Foreman tossed him a fleeting smile and then itched his nose.

Wilson fidgeted for a moment, then blurted out, "Did you know House was taking Depakote?"

Foreman looked up sharply, and then a dim echo of House's epiphany face ghosted over his features. "No," he said slowly. "But that would explain some things." He gave Wilson a guarded look, probably wondering why Wilson wasn't already privy to House's medication habits. "You didn't have any idea?"

Wilson shook his head, curious and suspicious at the same time. "It looks like he's been taking it for a couple of months now."

"Right." Foreman glanced at the wall, then lowered his voice. "I still have access to House's medical records from after the bus crash; he never rescinded authorization."

"You were his attending?"

"I took over from Chase after the DBS." Foreman looked reluctant to share more, but Wilson silently pled with him to tell him what was going on. "I could take a look," Foreman offerred. "But you know him; the charting might have been done under an alias."

"I know," Wilson replied. Then he cleared his throat and willed his tongue not to stick in his throat. He had not yet voiced this fear, even in thought, but it had been percolating somewhere in his mind, probably for weeks now. "Were there complications? Did...um. Did I do this to him?"

Foreman grew visibly uncomfortable and backed off a step. "Are you serious? It's been a year, and you're only just asking that?"

Wilson lifted his chin in defiance, but he could tell that his front couldn't cover the guilt he felt at the accusation.

Foreman sighed and shook his head. "Nothing was apparent when we discharged him. But head injuries like that are tricky. It could take months or even years for complications to show. You know that."

"Yeah," Wilson croaked. "I do."

"If it helps, the presentation seems more like a stress reaction." Foreman shrugged, but he clearly wasn't comfortable offering reassurances in a vacuum of facts. "I'll let you know what I find."

Wilson nodded. "I appreciate it."

"Yeah." Foreman pocketed his hands and took a deep breath. "So, um…" He shrugged like he was biting a bullet. "You guys got any plans for tomorrow?"

Wilson's initial reaction was a sharp chuckle, more insulted than anything else. "What, so now you wanna be my pity friend?"

"If I did, would you refuse the invitation?" Foreman challenged.

Wilson blinked at him, the irritation fading from his face. "No," he admitted. "No, I think at this point, I'm that desperate."

Foreman nodded and gave him a knowing smile, a shadow of the smugness that he liked to taut in the differential room when he sparred with House. "Remy and I are meeting some people for drinks around two, just some of the guys from the hospital. O'Sullivan's, near Princeton General. You should come." He started to turn away, then made a point of dipping his index finger at House. "And we won't object too much if you bring him along."

Wilson smiled, surprised to find that he felt relief at being invited out. It should have been such a simple thing, hardly worth mentioning. "Sounds good." He grimaced at his feet, then peered up at Foreman from under a lock of hair that fell over his forehead, sheepish. "And, um…thanks."

"Sure. I gotta go." Foreman started to turn, then stopped as if he had something more to say. He evidently thought better of it, shook his head, and continued out the door. Wilson followed him into the hallway and was about to turn back inside when Foreman paused again a few steps away. With his back to Wilson, Foreman said, "It's not pity."

Wilson swallowed at that and merely nodded. "Good night, Foreman."

Foreman inclined his head in return. "See you."

--TBC

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**REVIEWS ARE LOVE!!!!!!!!! And John Lennon said we should love one another. :P**


	30. Chapter 30

Wilson thought about ordering food, but he was exhausted and not very interested in eating. He took a shower instead, then straightened up their belongings as much as he could in a rented room. As an afterthought, he tried to wake House up long enough to get his pants off so that he could rest more comfortably, but Wilson ended up doing all the work. Once he had folded the jeans and placed them in a drawer, Wilson crawled up beside House's prone form. House had rolled over onto his stomach at some point and Wilson rested a hand between his shoulder blades just to feel the cadence of his easy respirations. It was strange, laying next to House and petting his back without him snarking about it, just listening to the gentle shush of air leaving his lungs and the occasional tiny sound, like a click or a hiccup that caught in his throat before he swallowed. Strange, but soothing.

A few hours later, Wilson started awake to find House poking him in the ribs, repeating his name in barely more than a whisper, his blue eyes illuminated by the sliver of street lights that pierced the room from the slit between the curtains. It was still night, barely three in the morning, but Wilson didn't take even a minute to go from dream-fogged to wide awake. He had secreted the morphine in the bottommost reaches of his briefcase, and it took a minute to dig it back out. House actually shook his head when his gaze fell on the vial of clear liquid, a sparkling beacon in a dark room. He managed to mumble something about staying alert just in case, but Wilson talked him into a quarter dose, just enough to take the edge off without knocking him out. After House started breathing normally and slipped under again, Wilson wondered why House had woken him up, if he weren't seeking drugs.

Wilson stayed in bed after that, but he couldn't fall back asleep. He watched flashes of headlights flit across a tiny patch of the ceiling; he counted House's respirations as if they were sheep; and he tried to fit Depakote into the tapestry of everything that he did not know was going on with House. Wilson even scrambled back out of bed when he realized he had forgotten his own medication the night before, and then he programmed a reminder into his phone for eight o'clock every evening so that he wouldn't forget again. And he'd missed two hugs since smoking House out of his apartment the previous afternoon, though he counted the bench snuggling as a bonus treatment. That thought made him smile in the darkness, pale and wan.

And then at about five o'clock, things got interesting. Wilson had nodded off, but he was merely floating halfway to sleep without a prayer of actually getting that far. House started rustling around next to him, and then he grumbled Wilson's name in a tone that Wilson hadn't heard in weeks.

Wilson's eyes popped open and he rolled up onto his elbows. "House? You awake?"

"Mrmble."

"Is that a yes?" Wilson scooted closer and smoothed a hand over House's scratchy cheek. House nosed Wilson's palm and turned his head far enough to afford Wilson a glimpse of half his face. "Hm. I guess that's actually a no."

The corner of House's mouth quirked up in a lazy smile. "…mm…Wilson…"

Wilson smiled back even though House couldn't see him, then glanced down the length of his body, to where his toes stuck out from under the quilt they were sharing. He cracked a devious grin to realize that House was laying frog-legged on his stomach. "No way." Wilson ran his hand under the quilt and along House's dorsal ribcage; House rounded his back into the touch and Wilson chuckled under his breath. "Oh-hoh. This is gonna be fun." Wilson leaned over and placed a dry kiss to House's jaw, then murmured, "I'm gonna tease you about this later."

"Mmm." House turned his face back into the pillow and nuzzled it. The rest of his body moved under Wilson's hand and he huffed out a low moan.

Wilson laughed softly. He hadn't thought that House had erotic dreams, or at least not the sort that plagued horny teenagers the world over. He'd never had one with Wilson around, that was for sure. Wilson craned his neck to touch his lips to that spot behind House's ear, and suckled lightly. House shifted and Wilson slid his hand down to cup House's ass through his boxers.

"Hm-hm. You're cute like this."

House twitched up against Wilson's hand and purred in his sleep.

As House rubbed himself against the bedding, Wilson quietly sang, "Wonder what you're dreaming about." He gently squeezed House's ass and then pressed down so that House thrust properly into the blanket.

House hiccupped, then emitted a startled, "Mmgihph."

"Is that so?" Wilson grazed his teeth over House's neck and then nipped at the junction of his shoulder. House let out a shuddering breath and drew his arms in to give himself leverage to keep grinding into the mattress. "Oh, no no no," Wilson told him. "Not like that. Why should you get to have all the fun?" Wilson worked a hand between House's legs from behind and pressed in against his perineum, effectively stopping his movements as he raised his hips a fraction. A whispery whine escaped from between House's mouth and the pillow. "Yeah, I know. I'm a tyrant." Wilson shimmied closer and pried House's arm out from beneath him, then drew it across his own waist. House angled into him just a little bit, and Wilson gently maneuvered House onto his left side so that he could slide partway under him. Then Wilson reached down and dragged House's right leg up far enough to drape it across himself. Now he could feel the warmth of House's erection pressed into his thigh. "Isn't that better?"

House mumbled sleepy nonsense into the pillow near Wilson's shoulder and angled his groin into the firmness of Wilson's leg.

"God, you feel good." Thank goodness House wasn't properly awake to hear that. Wilson slithered his right arm underneath House's torso and grunted at the difficulty of pulling House more properly on top of him. It seemed like sleep added twenty pounds to the man and House stayed partially curled even when Wilson dragged him up a bit by the arm pits, like picking up a four-week puppy that remained rolled like a pill bug, his head hanging low between his shoulders. It was a miracle House didn't wake up.

Wilson draped House's arms more comfortably around them, lifting his right so that it lay heavily over Wilson's shoulder, then hugged him close. It was like reclining under a bulky House-shaped blanket since House didn't think, in his sleep, to support any part of his weight on his arms. Wilson felt smothered, and it was wonderful.

"Almost there," Wilson groaned. House was breathing deeply again but he was still hard, so Wilson worked his right leg farther over until he could push his knee up between House's thighs. House's legs slid apart, his cock settling into the crook of Wilson's hip, and then House tensed, his body weight causing his groin to dig in against Wilson. His limbs flowed over Wilson's body like water, and after an encouraging pat on the ass, House started to slowly undulate his hips.

Wilson ground his pelvis up against House's stomach and threw his head back. He had some catching up to do. House emitted a rather feminine sigh and tucked his face in against Wilson's chest, his respirations increasing in time with the motion of his hips. Wilson raised his leg to give House more pressure, more stimulation, and turned his head to watch House's hand clench rhythmically around a handful of bedding next to Wilson's ear. The hard shape of House's cock dug into the soft crease of Wilson's hip, House's right knee dragging up the insides of Wilson's thighs until Wilson drew up his left leg and planted his heel flat against the mattress. He rolled his hips up, rutting against House's lower abdomen, and wrapped his arms tightly around House's back to hold him in place.

"Yeah," Wilson gasped, arching his spine. When House started to mouth Wilson's collarbone, sandpaper stubble abrading his skin, Wilson tangled a hand in House's hair and pushed his head down to better feel it. "God," he groaned. "Keep going."

House gave a needy whine and thrust harder, though still smooth and heavy with sleep, his legs cinched on either side of Wilson's right thigh.

A soft cry forced its way past Wilson's lips as the friction increased. "God, yeah."

House mumbled an incoherent response, his breath hot and moist against Wilson's skin, hair dampening with perspiration. Wilson latched a hand onto House's ass to help him along, fingers curled in over his thin boxers to exert the barest of pressure against his entrance. The tempo stuttered and House curled harder over him with a thin, papery wheeze. Wilson wondered how much longer House could go before waking, but his brain was too muddled to factor in the sedative effects of a quarter dose of morphine versus House's natural wakeful tendencies, and it really didn't matter anyway.

Wilson raised his free hand and brushed the backs of his knuckles over House's rough cheek. House turned toward the gentle sensation and Wilson pressed the pads of his fingers to House's chapped lips. The next thing he knew, House was sucking on his middle and index fingers, and if that wasn't hot, Wilson didn't know what was. Wilson slid his fingers farther in and caressed House's tongue as it sought to catalogue Wilson's fingerprints. Desperate and flushed, Wilson shut his eyes and basked in the heady aroma of their mingled musk, overlaid by the dry, sweet scent of sleep. "Unng…" Wilson bit his lip and ground himself up, trying to match House's tempo. His voice had gone pitchy and Wilson held back a moan with an effort; it came out as a whimper instead.

At the sound, House folded over him, his hands coming to rest on Wilson's shoulder and bicep. He purred the syllables of Wilson's name, his voice a gruff rumble of grated sound just audible over the mingled cacophony of their gasping breaths. Wilson crooned encouragements into House's ear and hooked his fingers into the backs of House's teeth so that House's tongue swirled over his first knuckles. Then Wilson withdrew the digits and stroked a line down House's spine, sparking a fit of trembles.

"You close?" Wilson whispered, then hissed as House twitched against him. "Yeah. Come on. Just…nngh_-ohh_…oh god…a little more." Wilson hiccupped and shuddered as a bout of tension seized him in a wave from head to foot. It passed, leaving tingles of electricity in its wake, and Wilson panted for a moment. "Ah…ah…"

House's breath hitched, and then he gave a shivery cry, his face stuffed back into Wilson's neck where his nose fit perfectly into the hollow of Wilson's throat. Then he convulsed and whimpered something confused, his hips jerking irregularly now, sharp staccato thrusts and twitches against Wilson's body. House flexed with a harsh, urgent gasp that ended in a bewildered grunt, and he lifted his head just as his body went rigid. Wilson met his startled gaze as House's eyes saucered, black pits of pupils ringed in a painfully bright corona of blue.

"Mngh – " House arched his head back, taken off guard, the chords of his neck thrown out in sharp relief from the force with which the first wave came, mouth agape. Then he let out a sharp yelp and clenched all over, quaking, his breath caught in his throat. House grunted and rammed his cock against Wilson's hip, damp warmth soaking the thin layers of cotton between them, his body caught in the intensity of it, until finally, the ecstasy released him and he sagged against Wilson, his hands fisted in Wilson's shirt, hips jogging in random bursts of residual pleasure. Wilson held him through the aftershocks, reveling in every shallow gasp and strained groan that escaped House's lips, House's every breath tinged with surprise at waking up right on the cusp of coming like that. After the last one passed, House moaned in relief and went limp, his legs splayed on either side of Wilson's right one, panting heavily into Wilson's clavicle, his mouth open against the collar of Wilson's t-shirt.

Wilson skimmed his fingernails lightly over House's back, tripping over sweat-dampened cotton. House shivered in response and turned his head to rest his cheek on Wilson's chest, his cobalt eyes open and stunned. "Morning, House."

"Oh my god," House slurred, exhausted all over again.

Wilson chuckled, his upper teeth showing as he grinned. "I decree that from now on, every morning should start like this."

As if it hurt to make any noise at all, House whimpered, "Uh-huh." He gulped in a breath and then shut his eyes with yet another sated groan. The weakness of afterglow seemed to make him even heavier and his weight compressed Wilson into the mattress, sinking as if their bodies could fuse together without a single gap between. "Mm." He licked his lips and Wilson caught the tail end of a smile as it flowed over his mouth and disappeared.

"Okay." Wilson's voice grated out along with lost air, and he pushed feebly at House's shoulders, to no avail. "You weigh a ton, you know that?"

House set his feet so that Wilson had no hope of shoving him off, then chuckled and drawled, "You want some reciprocation, or something?"

"I wouldn't object," Wilson wheezed, giving up on trying to roll House. He wriggled his hips instead, using what little leverage he still had with his left leg. House's stomach twitched over Wilson's now-aching cock as he laughed under his breath, moving to pin Wilson down more fully. Wilson still managed to obtain the tiniest bit of friction as he squirmed, tantalizing him with just enough stimulation to drive him nuts. "Nnm! Come on, you ass!"

"Flattery will get you nowhere." House shimmied higher on Wilson's body, his movements lazy and sated, eyes lidded as if he might fall back asleep at any moment. He bent his head to nibble Wilson's neck, leaving a series of sharp nips from his shoulder to his ear before he shifted over and covered Wilson's mouth with his own.

"Merm." Wilson's chest heaved as House suffocated him, then wrenched his head to the side long enough to gasp in a fresh breath. When he turned back, House didn't waste time on the niceties of making out; his tongue slithered into Wilson's mouth, lips moving in bouts of suction, soft hot wetness interspersed with coarse dry abrasions of the stubble on his chin and upper lip. Wilson bared his teeth into the kiss and made a needy, stuttering sound low in the back of his throat. Then he wrapped his arms around House's back and dug his fingers into House's shoulder blades. Without involving higher brain functions, Wilson's body undulated under House's, trying desperately to arch and thrust even though he couldn't move. He probably looked like a squished fish out of water, swallowing desperately around House's tongue in the absence of air, body bowing up and back with every aborted attempt to inhale. Eventually, Wilson had to break off again, and he sucked in a lungful so forcefully that his lower lip trembled and he felt he might pass out. On the exhale, he moaned long and deep, his eyes gliding shut. "House…please, no more teasing."

House bit gently at Wilson's throat, drawing a sharp whimper out of him, and then he slid out from under Wilson's clawed fingers. Wilson opened his eyes to watch House squirm down his body, pivoting as he did so. House turned all the way around, nearly in the sixty-nine position, his left hip resting on the mattress near Wilson's armpit so that his wrung-out genitals pressed in a patch of warmth against Wilson's flank, cushioned by damp boxers. Then with Wilson's assistance, House slung his right leg over Wilson's chest, his ankle hooked over Wilson's right shoulder. Just as Wilson was about to start complaining, House nosed at the tented front of Wilson's boxers.

After House settled over him, Wilson flopped his head back and groaned in anticipation, his arms flung out to either side. House slid his thumbs under the waistband of Wilson's boxers and tugged until they were bunched around his upper thighs. Then he dug his face into Wilson's crotch and took one of his balls into his mouth. Wilson's breath caught and he had to expel a lungful before he could figure out how to inhale again. House was breathing through his nose, his nostrils hovering near the base of Wilson's cock, alternating bathing Wilson's groin in warmth with voids of cool air between.

House closed his lips over Wilson's testicle and then tongued it for a while, hollowing his cheeks to suck hard at the same time. That made Wilson pant in uneven gulps, and he fisted the bedding, pulling patches of quilt toward him, his head digging back into a pillow. Wilson's spine arced off of the bed and his legs spread farther of their own accord, knees falling wide, a few toes starting to curl.

Wilson didn't even notice when he started whimpering, his chest stuttering with each sound, the side of his face pressed into the pillow while he bit his lip. Wilson blinked his eyes open with quite a bit of difficulty to find House's ankle resting right next to his nose. House's body was moving subtly on top of him, in time with the exertions of his mouth so that he could keep changing the angle. When House finally released Wilson's testicle, Wilson watched House's toes dig into the blankets as the rest of him curled off to one side. Then House's lips fixed over the head of Wilson's cock, and Wilson's jaw went slack.

Wilson let out a wispy mewl, his neck arching of its own accord as he flexed and elongated his torso. House shifted his lower body and slid farther to Wilson's left, only half on top of him now, and Wilson fought to keep his eyes open, staring at an Achilles tendon, of all things. He let his gaze flicker up the length of House's calf, to the back of his knee and then farther, until his eyes touched on where House's thigh disappeared into the shadow of his boxers. Wilson tilted his head and ran his left hand up over the curve of House's ass, since it was right there. House hummed appreciatively so Wilson started kneading his rump through the thin cotton, letting his thumb dip lower every now and then just because it made House shiver and swallow small noises that vibrated around the head of Wilson's cock.

When House finally started bobbing his head between Wilson's legs, Wilson sighed and moved his other hand to massage the back of House's bad thigh. He figured he could get away with it since House was occupied elsewhere, and the overworked muscles there had to be sore. House would never admit that he enjoyed something like this, not coming from Wilson anyway, but Wilson could tell from the hint of purring that there weren't going to be any objections. House readjusted himself while Wilson moved on to House's knee, resting his armpits over Wilson's hips. Wilson lifted his legs at a few pokes and House wrapped his arms under Wilson's thighs so that he could tickle and tease at Wilson's balls and perineum with both hands. Wilson huffed out an aroused breath and then panted raggedly at the stimulation. House accommodated the few involuntary thrusts that Wilson couldn't quite hold back, and then encouraged him to keep rolling his hips, a smooth ripple of muscles that flowed in waves from Wilson's abdomen to his feet, which were drawn up now and braced flat on the mattress. It didn't take long for Wilson to start thrusting properly, seeking the hot, moist suction above him.

Enough time elapsed that Wilson could feel House hardening again, his semi-firm erection smearing a hint of wetness over the short, wiry hair near Wilson's armpit. Wilson was too close by now to really give a care about that, his body flushed and overheated while House drew out the encounter by pulling his lips away just as Wilson approached the brink, then diving back in, again and again, until Wilson didn't have a prayer of thinking straight about anything. He could feel House's fingers playing with the thin skin of his scrotal sac, gently pinching and tugging on it, rolling his balls around inside of it and rubbing it between his fingers. Most women were hesitant to do anything worthwhile with that wonderful little sac of loose skin, but being a fellow man, House didn't hesitate to be just rough enough with it to drive Wilson to new heights of restrained pleasure.

Wilson thrashed as an especially powerful arc of heat coursed through his body, the blade of House's tongue pressed firmly into his slit while he wiggled a finger against Wilson's perineum. Wilson found himself pressing his face against the nearest handy thing, which turned out to be House's ankle. Without any real cognizance of what he was doing, Wilson emitted a needy, high-pitched moan, and flickered his tongue over the skin that rested in front of his nose, then mindlessly latched his lips over the divot right behind the ball of House's foot.

House choked over Wilson's cock and froze with his lips clamped halfway down the length of it. Wilson felt House's breathing speed up to epic rates, his fingers pinched around a nip of skin behind Wilson's balls. House's other hand scrabbled to hold onto something and he ended up gouging his fingernails into the back of Wilson's right thigh. The sharp pain dragged Wilson just far enough away from the brink that he could process what was going on, and then he let out a gentle breath of laughter. He should have known, with all the sneakers House owned and the way he could recognize name brand shoes from a hundred feet. Wilson reached both arms around to hug House's calf to his chest, twisting his upper body to the right to make it more comfortable for both of them. He should have been disgusted with the idea of if, but Wilson was too aroused to give a shit that he had started mouthing toes and flicking his tongue between them to tease the webbing.

House sucked hurried breaths in through his nose, his mouth still fixed immobile on Wilson's penis. Wilson strained his eyes to catch sight of House's shoulders heaving with each forceful inhale, and then he let his teeth graze and nip over the ultra-sensitive nerve endings on the bottom of House's foot. House gave off a strained sort of moan that left a haze of pleasure all over Wilson's cock, and then he sounded like he choked over something again before he resumed the blowjob. This time, he moved fast and hard, sucking deep, brutal, swallowing in frantic bursts when Wilson's tip hit the back of his throat, in too much of a hurry to prevent an occasional hint of teeth from entering the equation.

It left Wilson breathless and he cinched his arms around House's leg just to anchor himself, his head flung back, all thoughts of indulging odd new discoveries banished to the farthest reaches of his conscious brain. Radiant heat blossomed all through Wilson's lower body, from the base of his spine to the tip of his cock, pressure and warmth and a quiver of muscles, oxygen fleeing, sweat beading out of every pore. Wilson writhed back and then cried out, arched off the bed as an agony of pleasure assaulted him, electric jolts coursing throughout his body, leaving him ensnared, unable to move, to unclench, to do anything but endure it as it raced and ballooned through him.

Wilson's throat unlocked and he pulled in a labored breath, hardly able to take anymore. He gritted his teeth at the second assault and a distant sound reached his ears as he growled helplessly at the awful intensity of it, his body aching and rigid and strained to the breaking point. And then it snapped and he gave and agonized yelp, coming down House's throat so hard he thought he would pass out, but he didn't. Dark spots overwhelmed his vision but didn't drag him under, and after what felt like an anguished eternity, Wilson's limbs turned to jelly. He wilted on the bed, House falling down with him. Apparently, it had been quite a ride for both of them.

Wilson gasped in huge draughts of air, his skin sticky with perspiration, hair plastered to his head in clumps. He felt House roll off of him in an uncoordinated mess of body parts, and then the mattress dipped and leapt as House plopped over next to him. Wilson peeled his eyes open to watch House fumble his boxers off and go at himself again, hand tugging furiously, legs spread, left arm flung over his eyes as he thrust up into his own tightly clenched fist. It was over in seconds and House grunted helplessly as he came, white fluid running over his fingers in a few protracted bursts until his hips fell back to the bed and he just laid there, panting and still holding himself as he softened.

Wilson turned his face back to the ceiling and let his eyes drift shut. He didn't even notice it when he transitioned seamlessly into a much-needed sleep just as the dawn broke through the thin slash between the ugly flower-print curtains. This time, he dreamed about being inside the little glass sphere where House smiled at him, a special secret glitter in his bright, cerulean eyes. Even fast asleep, though, he felt it when House crawled up over him again and curled around Wilson's exhausted body with a contented sigh.

* * *

"We're going where?"

"Out for drinks at O'Sullivan's." That was the fourth time so far that Wilson had repeated himself. "Foreman invited us." Wilson resumed scrubbing his head with the coarse, bleached hotel towel, then grimaced into the mirror and tossed the towel aside. "And for my sake, you're going to pretend to enjoy yourself."

House griped under his breath and made a face at the rolled up socks that Wilson had just tossed at him. "Why are you making me go? None of them even like me. You'll have more fun if I'm not there."

"You don't even know who else is going to be there," Wilson countered. "But good try." A flash of sympathy gripped him at the frankly cornered look on House's face; it was only there because House didn't realize that Wilson was watching him in the mirror. "Look, it'll be fine. You can sit at the bar and watch hockey. You don't even have to make small talk."

"Mm." House puffed out his cheeks, then blew out his mouthful of air and bent down to put his socks on. "Did you remember to take your meds last night?"

"Yeah," Wilson replied. Then he paused with his comb snarled in a tangle of hair. "Did you take yours?"

"You watched me take mine," House pointed out, his voice flat. "Plus, I vaguely recall you giving me more." He shot Wilson one of those fake smiles of his, then extended his cane to hook a sneaker.

"Not the Vicodin," Wilson said tonelessly. "The Depakote. The bottle said you're supposed to take it twice daily. Something tells me you didn't have a chance to sneak it last night without me noticing."

House froze, his sneaker dangling from the handle of his cane by its laces.

"I found it in your backpack," Wilson reminded him. "Remember?" He twisted his upper body toward House without moving his feet. "I don't suppose you'll tell me why you have it?"

House lowered the sneaker back to the floor and haltingly looked away.

Wilson frowned and faced the mirror again. He hesitated to really push the issue, because the fact that House was taking it implied that he might not be ignoring symptoms at all. In the end, though, Wilson's sense of entitled curiosity won out. He softened his voice, though, because part of him shrank from confronting the issue. "Are the flashbacks that bad, or is it for something else?"

In the silence that stretched thick between them, Wilson could actually hear House unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He didn't respond, however; Wilson thought it looked like he chickened out of saying something.

Wilson lowered the comb and met his gaze in the mirror; House looked away as soon as he noticed Wilson watching him. "House."

"Yeah, I forgot to take it last night."

"Okay." Wilson switched tacks with the ease of long association with House's ways. "Well. You can double up then." Wilson went for a disinterested shrug, one hand extended toward House. Even though House didn't offer a comment, Wilson nodded to confirm that. "Good." Then he crossed the room to retrieve the bottle from House's backpack.

When Wilson came back and held the bottle out, House grasped Wilson's wrist instead. He plucked the pills from Wilson's fingers with his other hand, eyes downcast, and mumbled, "They were that bad."

Wilson blinked a few times, then swallowed. "Those help?"

House nodded, then frowned self consciously at his lap.

"Okay, then," Wilson replied. He wasn't even all that sure that he wanted to ask for more, and House was obviously uncomfortable with Wilson even knowing that much, so Wilson tried for a dismissive smile. "Come on. I'll buy you a latte."

House's eyes flickered about Wilson's knees, and then he ventured a glance up, head still bowed. "Kay." Then he hurried to look away and let Wilson go so that he could take the pills.

The cops were gone by the time they stepped out of the hotel, which both pleased and dismayed Wilson. He didn't particularly care for Morrow's veiled suspicion or her partner's principled objection to his relationship with House, but he would have felt safer if someone were stalking them for their own protection. That though hit Wilson halfway across the parking lot, and he turned his head to watch House limping along beside him, making no move to conceal the fact that he was staring at a family packing up their car with nothing but dirty looks for each other. Ah, domestic bliss. Wilson missed House popping his head around corners like an inept private eye, keeping tabs on him, caring from afar in his own dysfunctional way. Wilson realized that back before all of this, it had somehow made him feel safer, more confident at knowing that somebody had his back even if it was sort of creepy and subtle. Then again, House evidently still had his back; it just didn't feel the same.

They still had a few hours to waste before they had to be at O'Sullivan's. Wilson dragged House shopping for necessities like shaving cream and toothpaste, but not before driving through Dunkin Donuts for the promised latte. House didn't complain about the taste this time, but he wasn't saying much of anything to begin with. It took lunch at Mickey's Diner and a trip to a craft store where House insisted on purchasing a baggie of round plastic beads and a ridiculous number of pipe cleaners before the atmosphere started to approach normal again. When asked about the pipe cleaners, House merely adopted his most emphatically innocent face, and Wilson narrowed his eyes at him because he knew that nothing good ever came of that look.

By the time the got to the pub, House was twisting pipe cleaners around his cane for no good reason, and Wilson was actually nervous. "For god's sake," Wilson muttered to himself. "It's just drinks."

House looked over at him as Wilson backed into a parking space, then pulled forward, then backed up again, then opened his door to make sure he was close enough to the curb to avoid a ticket. "Wow," House remarked. "It's like first date jitters."

"Shut up, House." Wilson threw the Volvo back into drive and tried to inch the car closer to the curb.

"Meter maids don't skip around town with tape measures, Wilson. It's fine."

"I know!" Wilson snapped. He kept straightening the car, though.

House sucked his lips between his teeth and gazed out his window to the pub across the street. Then he looked back at Wilson. "Did I do something?"

Wilson hit the brake and looked at him. "No. Why?"

"No reason." House shrugged, but his eyes were covertly cataloguing Wilson's stance, his breathing rate, the color of his knuckles where they grasped the steering wheel…

Wilson dipped his head and glared in the hopes of eliciting a more satisfactory response, but House merely stared back at him, impassive. Finally, Wilson shifted into park and turned the car off, then twisted sideways in his seat to face House. "I can't understand why you wouldn't tell me about the Depakote. And knowing you, Ngyen doesn't know either, which is stupid. And dangerous. There are counter-indications for Warfarin and Amytryptaline."

"You know," House remarked too casually, "my medical treatment isn't actually supposed to be your problem anymore. Remember?"

Wilson snapped, "I'm a doctor, you asshole." Then he scaled back, but he was still pissed. "I can't ignore the dangers inherent in you taking – what is it, now – seven different medications at once? And all of that aside, I've been worried sick about you for a month under the impression that you were sick and ignoring symptoms like the idiot doctor you are. And now I find out that you _are_ getting treatment, so all of my worrying was for nothing. It hurts, House. Can you get that?"

"Yeah, I can get that," House replied, still far too much at ease.

"Then why didn't you tell me?" Wilson demanded. "All you had to say was, 'Hey, Wilson. I'm taking Depakote now. It's for those flashbacks, cuz you know, they're such a bummer. I just wanted you to know so you can quit pulling your hair out.'"

House furrowed his brow and theatrically raised himself in his seat to get a glimpse of the top of Wilson's head. "You don't look like you've developed a spontaneous case of trichotillomania."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Don't get cute with me, House. Not over this."

House flopped back in his seat and slumped against the door. "Jesus, Wilson. Do you have to do this now?"

Wilson shut his eyes to get his broiling temper under control; he hated it when House deflected like _that_, as if Wilson were being an unreasonable, nagging wife. In fact, Wilson recalled deflecting the exact same way toward his own wives. It always led to a spectacular fight; now he knew why. "Okay." Wilson held his hands out, palms facing House, and repeated, "Okay. Just tell me that Ngyen knew, and that somebody's been monitoring your blood sats."

"_I've_ been monitoring them," House replied, disgruntled. "You think I'm really that much of an idiot?"

"Yes," Wilson deadpanned. "You lend yourself to it on occasion."

House glared at him.

Abruptly, Wilson asked, "When did they start?"

House blinked, and though it hardly showed on his face, the blankness betrayed that Wilson had caught him off guard with that question.

"Did they _start_ in November?" Wilson pressed. "Or is that just when you finally sought treatment for them?"

House studied him for a moment, and then his expression closed off even more. "You're an ass."

Wilson started to retort, or reason, or something, but House moved incredibly fast for a cripple when he wanted to; he was out the door and halfway across the street before Wilson finished processing that he'd walked out on the conversation. With an exasperated groan, Wilson jiggled the keys from the ignition and climbed out, locking the Volvo behind him.

House had taken up residence on a bench a few feet down from the door of O'Sullivan's, and Wilson made a face at the cigarette he produced out of nowhere. Wilson had thought he found them all in the great raid of Saturday morning, but apparently not. House raised an eyebrow as Wilson approached, comically hunched over his lap with a lighter, trying in vain to shelter the flame from the wind long enough to light up.

"Must you?" Wilson sat down harder than necessary and jabbed a finger toward the cigarette.

House pulled his head up, cigarette dangling from his lips, and retorted, "If you'd prefer, I could pop a pill right now."

Wilson flared his nostrils, then looked away with a sigh. "I really upset you that much?"

"With the inquisition thing, yeah." House focused back on his cigarette, swearing around it as he clicked the lighter over and over.

"Really," Wilson drawled. He glanced at House's fruitless endeavor, then adopted a more conversational tone. "What are you so afraid of me figuring out?"

"That I shot Kennedy," House returned, all snark and bristles. "That grassy knoll thing was all me, baby."

Wilson pursed his lips. "You were four when Kennedy was assassinated."

"I was always ahead of the age curve."

"House, be serious for a minute."

"Nope." House growled at the lighter and folded farther over his knees.

Wilson rolled his eyes, then snatched the cigarette from House's lips.

"Hey!"

"Give." Wilson made a grabby hand at the lighter, staring House down without flinching, then awarded himself ambiguous victory points when House finally huffed and handed it over. Wilson turned to one side, cupped his hand, and lit the cigarette, then held it out to House with a cough thrown in for good measure.

House watched him warily as he took it, then scooted down to the end of the bench as if he didn't trust Wilson not to steal it back. "Thanks."

Wilson gave him a dirty look in response, then made a point of not watching him suck on the stupid thing. Wilson listened to House exhale, picturing the exaggerated roundness of his lips, perhaps tilting his head back in the process. Then he ventured, "You didn't have flashbacks before the DBS."

House immediately snarked, "I didn't have sex with you before the DBS either. Maybe that's a symptom too."

"House – " Wilson made a frustrated noise and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. If you don't want to talk to me…" He flapped his hands to dispel the whole issue. "Then fine. Don't."

They both sat there in silence for a minute, House smoking and thumping his cane on the ground between his feet, Wilson bouncing a leg and maintaining a slow simmer, like frothed butter in a skillet. Then House suddenly barked, "It's not your fault, okay? You didn't do this."

Wilson slowly turned back to him, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

"The…the flashbacks." House waved his cigarette toward Wilson, then noticed Wilson leaning away from it and switched it to his left hand. "They're not from the DBS – it's not a seizure thing."

It was uncanny how House could consistently follow Wilson's unspoken thoughts like that, especially the ones that Wilson didn't even indulge in his own mind for more than thirty seconds at a time. "Um. The timing's a little coincidental, then."

"I don't care," House snapped. "It's not from the DBS."

"Have you made sure? MRI's, EEG's, neurological workups?"

"No, because it's not the DBS!"

Oh. Wilson looked away again and resumed tapping his foot. That was one of those illusory beliefs that House knew made him a hypocrite for denying facts, but that he needed for some reason. Maybe because he didn't want to acknowledge the possibility that Wilson could ever hurt him that badly…leave lasting marks on his life like that. Hell, Wilson didn't want to credit that either. In spite of that, Wilson softly countered, "It might be. The location of the skull fracture puts you at risk for temporal lobe seizure disorders, which can manifest as flashbacks."

House fumed for a second, then distracted himself with his cigarette, which had burned almost all the way down by now. All he said in response was, "No." From his tone, that was House's final judgment on the matter, forevermore.

And that, for whatever reason, made Wilson want to cry. His heart actually ached. House had said any number of cruel things to him over the course of their friendship, but he had never really said anything that hurt in this particular undiluted manner. "House…what do I have to do to you before you actually get mad at me?"

House shot him an incredulous look. "Did you take stupid pills this morning? You piss me off all the time."

"Yeah, I know. I mean real anger." Wilson bobbled his head, contemplating any number of ways to explain it. "The kind you won't ever forgive me for."

House raised a speculative eyebrow, but offered no other depth of expression. "You mean the kind you felt toward me when I let your girlfriend die?"

Wilson's cheek twitched in a confusing mixture of annoyance and crushing guilt. "House, I literally fried your brain – the only part of yourself that you actually profess to value. And I knew that when I asked you to do it. You should hate me."

House's eyelids dropped a fraction, as if he were bored with the entire issue.

Wilson knew he wasn't; he knew what that look sought to conceal. "Why don't you hate me?"

It seemed like House considered giving a serious answer for all of five seconds. Probably less; there was expressional lag time to account for. "Aww, Jimmy. Like anybody could ever hate you? You're a saint. Even I can't deny the extent of your do-gooding perfection."

Usually, House's deflective mockery didn't disappoint Wilson quite so much. "House…"

House made a face at his burned out cigarette, then flung it into the street along with an irritated sigh. "Come on, Wilson. How many times have I screwed you over? We're even now. Let it go."

"Even." Wilson narrowed his eyes and turned sideways on the bench. "You think I'm keeping score?"

"_I_ am."

Wilson balked in disbelief. "No, you're not."

"No, I'm not," House agreed, resigned, but he only did that when agreeing simply took less effort than a continued attempt to sway Wilson to his opinion. It was a farce.

Wilson dropped his face into one hand, then flapped the hand in the air without raising his head. He started to say something, but House beat him to speaking.

"Do you feel bad for it?"

Wilson looked up, his head cocked to one side. "About the DBS?"

House shrugged and seemed to grow smaller on the bench beside him. "No, for…the way you asked." Then he shook himself, and threw a terrified look at Wilson before he seized his cane and climbed too quickly to his feet. "Never mind," he grunted, hobbling to the left with one hand on the back of the bench to retain his balance. "Just forget it. We should go in. It's cold out here."

"House – "

"I'm not mad at you! Why should I have to be? Is that like a requirement with you? I should dangle crap over your head until Hell freezes over or you apologize?"

Wilson started, then asked in a halting voice, "You don't think I'm sorry?"

House scrubbed his palm over his face and _mrph_'d into it. "Enough. You didn't do anything."

"I nearly killed you!"

"I deserved it!"

Wilson's jaw dropped. Some tiny part of his brain reassured him that the sidewalk around them was empty, so he didn't have to worry about eavesdroppers.

House's cheek twitched, his face devoid of emotion, though Wilson could only imagine what he must be thinking. It had just tumbled out of his mouth.

"N-no," Wilson finally stuttered. "You didn't."

House's gaze slid to one side, and then he straightened, all façade. "Foreman."

Wilson shot to his feet and nearly tripped as he backed toward House. "Hey."

Foreman and Thirteen were close enough to the pub doors that they probably hadn't overheard anything of interest, but having been trained by House, they could tell that something was wrong. Foreman tipped his chin up in greeting. "Hey. You came."

Wilson nodded, a bundle of obvious nerves, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Yeah."

Foreman and Thirteen wore identical knowing looks, and then Thirteen shrugged off the tension. "Cool. Now he owes me twenty bucks." She tipped her head at Foreman. "He bet you wouldn't show."

Wilson suddenly found his hand clutching the back of his neck like it was in imminent danger of falling off. "Yeah, well, we've been sort of, um, cooped up." He offered them a squicky smile and forced himself to drop his hand. "You know." Behind him, House wasn't even moving.

Foreman frowned at both of them. "Do you guys need a minute? Is this like…I dunno…a lover's quarrel?" He sort of shrugged over that, as if it didn't even phase him. It probably didn't for that matter.

"We're not lovers," House snapped.

Wilson screwed up one side of his face, embarrassed. "No, it's…nothing. Look. Let's just go inside. Get…drunk or something."

"Wilson's totally stressed out," House put in helpfully. "What with all the drug dealers running around, messing up his daily routine." House shrugged and then quipped, "He didn't even style his hair this morning; it's losing its vitamin-enriched luster. Clearly, he just needs a beer."

Wilson swiveled his head around to glare at House. "Thanks for explaining that. Clearly, nothing else is bothering me."

"No problem," House replied, playing it up. "What are friends for?"

"Dick."

"Okay," Foreman broke in, and Wilson noted that he finally appeared uncomfortable. "Shall we?"

House presented him with a huge smile, one of those expressions he pulled that only morons took for genuine. "Let's. I hear they have great onion rings." He patted Wilson's hair as he passed, which only further annoyed him, and disappeared into the pub.

Foreman and Thirteen turned back to Wilson, and Thirteen ventured to ask, "Are you sure everything's okay?"

"It's House," Wilson replied drolly. "If he didn't piss me off at least six times before dinner, he'd consider the day wasted." He offered a pretty convincing smile.

Thirteen shifted her shoulders with a nod. "Granted. But still."

Wilson offered them both a wry smile and merely walked past them into the pub. No one else from the hospital had arrived yet, so Wilson made his way up to the bar, where House had claimed a stool against the farthest possible wall, the better to make sure he could escape any unwanted conversationalists. Wilson sidled up to the stool next to him, one eye on Foreman and Thirteen to make sure that they found a table rather than following him. They did, and Wilson spun back to the bar without looking at House.

"So," House offered.

Wilson clasped his hands on the bar. "I just wanted to get out for a few hours. I thought this would be fun."

House studied him for a second, then lowered his gaze and pulled his glass of soda closer to him by the corner of the cocktail napkin it was sitting on. "Sorry."

Wilson shook his head. "It's nothing you did."

"Mm." House sounded unconvinced. "I don't actually mean to fight with you all the time."

"Yeah." Wilson sighed and passed his palms over his face, then turned on the stool, one elbow leaning on the bar and his other hand resting on his knee. "Me neither. It just happens that way."

House regarded him warily from the corner of one eye.

"It just…it bothers me that you won't ever confide in me." Wilson held up a hand to stop House from saying anything yet. "I know why you don't. That's not…that's not what I'm saying." He sighed and then threw up his hand. "I don't know what I'm saying. I just don't want you to think you have to hide things from me. I don't want that. It's why people drift apart, and I don't want that to happen here." Wilson sucked his lips between his teeth and slashed his palm between them to emphasize that. "And I wish you'd told me that there were complications from the DBS. I just wish you could have trusted me with that. Since it _is_ my fault."

"You weren't exactly around for me to tell," House pointed out. His voice carried a hint of reproach, but not as much as Wilson thought it should.

Wilson simply replied, "I was wrong."

Eventually, House nodded and wrapped his hands around his pop glass. "I don't want to have to revisit it anymore, okay? I don't even want to know if that's what caused it. It's not important."

"House, it's important."

"No," House insisted, his voice hushed but strained. They both glanced up to make sure that the bartender was still absent, and then House lowered his voice even more. "I don't want to end up blaming you. I don't want _you _blaming you either." House made a face at the glass, his mouth scrunched up under his nose. "I mean, she's taken enough from me already. I don't want her to get this too."

Wilson drew in a preparatory breath, but he had nothing to say to that, so he swiveled back to the bar instead. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when he tried to lick his lips, and he could hear his voice vibrate unevenly along his tongue, a low creak one degree removed from a whisper. "I don't even know where to begin to apologize."

House stiffened for a moment, then seemed to relax by force. "I told you it's over," he grumbled. "Just stop."

"I can't," Wilson rasped back. "I know what I said to you, House – I know what that meant."

"Yeah," House whispered. "And I know what calling you in the middle of the night did to her." He leaned in Wilson's direction as if by accident, staring into the middle distance, blinking at all of the nameless things trapped behind the lids of his own eyes.

Wilson looked at his hands and stammered, "That's – that's not the same. I could've killed you."

"I knew that when I agreed to do it."

Air whistled through Wilson's nasal passages as he breathed, and then he asked, "So why did you?"

House shifted again, and his leg settled up against Wilson's. "It matters."

"What does?"

"What you think of me."

Wilson translated that into, "You didn't want me to hate you."

House moved his shoulders in a vague, half-assed shrug.

Wilson nodded to let House know that he comprehended as much, then lightened his tone. "You know…when Cuddy found out about us, she told me I was bad for you."

House scoffed and a warm puff of air rolled over Wilson's cheek.

"She was right."

"Wilson, come on. I'm no saint either."

"At least you don't pretend to be."

"Some people call that being a bastard."

"Maybe," Wilson replied noncommittally. "Sometimes I think maybe you can only do what you do because you don't give a damn."

House's forehead creased in slight confusion; he didn't know where Wilson was taking this. "I don't exactly make a secret of that."

"I mean about yourself," Wilson snapped. Then he softened his tone and elaborated. "You get an idea in your head and you don't stop, no matter what it does to you. You're selfless. You really are, and you don't even know it."

House snorted, started to smile, then shook his head. "Wilson, I'm the most selfish man alive."

Wilson merely glanced at House's hands where they clasped the pop glass. "No you're not – not by a long shot. All those times you risk your life or your career, you don't think it matters because it's just you, and they're not you, so it's worth it…you can only be selfless because you think you're not worth what they are. And it makes me sad to know that if you didn't think that, you wouldn't be a good person at all. You'd just be selfish like me."

House gave an aborted head shake and then narrowed his eyes at the condensation gathering on the bar napkin. "You're not making any sense."

Wilson subsided, but only because he had no idea how to explain it in terms that House would find logical enough to believe. Finally, Wilson drew in a breath of air and barely said, "It's not penance. She was on the bus because of you, but you didn't kill her."

"Wilson, what you think about that doesn't actually make a difference to me."

Wilson started, and then inhaled open-mouthed because he wasn't sure that his nose was clear enough for breathing. His voice weak, he asked, "You think it's a platitude?"

"I think you'd say anything right now to alleviate your own guilt," House replied, but he tried to soften his words by following them with an apologetic smile. It looked more like a grimace.

Wilson shifted uncomfortably because he didn't know if he agreed with House or not. All he ended up saying was, "Sometimes I wish I were more like you." He didn't even know why he thought that now, at this juncture, but he did. Maybe he just wanted to be selfless for once too, and not have it feel like a farce when he did so, as if even his good deeds were somehow self-serving. Whenever House did something good, he gained nothing. Wasn't that the definition of a selfless act?

House gave a weary sigh and replied, "Sometimes I wish you weren't."

Wilson's face cracked in a sickly smile and he blew an uneasy breath out his nose. "Have you been skimping on the medical treatment just because of this? Because you were afraid you'd find out I caused it?"

House groaned in exasperation and rolled his eyes. "God, why aren't you done yet? You want a hug or something?"

"Yes, but that's not the point. You're playing catch-up with your health, and that's not going to work for much longer. You're getting worse, and you know it. You have to face it. All of it, not just the parts you feel like addressing."

"I'd rather just hug you until you shut the hell up. Or suffocate. Whichever happens first."

Wilson grinned at that and craned his neck to meet House's gaze. His smile waned. "Seriously. You need to take better care of yourself, House. I can't do it for you."

"Not for lack of trying," House quipped.

"True." Wilson pushed himself up straight and decided that now would be a good time to drop the subject. If House wasn't full-out verbally attacking him yet, then it meant he was thinking about it, which was all Wilson could really hope for at any given time. "You said something about onion rings."

"Yeah." House squinted at Wilson, clearly expecting more admonitions and perhaps a threat of being hogtied and dragged to the hospital for whatever tests Wilson fancied. "Didn't you just eat?"

"I could make room for onion rings."

"Thought you were some sort of health nut."

Wilson made a face at the wall above House's head. "Ah…no. But it doesn't hurt to keep up appearances now and then."

His expression genuinely curious, and therefore suspect, House asked, "And suffering through a pound of kale is worth that."

Wilson shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. "If it means I can eat onion rings without worrying about my cholesterol, then yes."

"Ah." House nodded sagely. "Now I get it. Clever."

Wilson tilted his head and met House's open yet wary eyes. "Thank you for risking your life for her."

House didn't miss a beat, and his voice hardened. "I didn't do it for her."

"I know," Wilson replied. "Thanks anyway."

House cocked his head like a spaniel catching wind of a strange scent. "Uh-huh." It would take him weeks to wring proper sense out of that. "Chase is giving us funny looks."

Wilson twisted on the stool to discover that Chase and Cameron had joined the table far away by the window with Foreman and Thirteen. He spun back to House and jerked a thumb in their direction. "Feel like being friendly?"

"Not really. My handler doesn't take me out in public enough. I'm not acclimated to crowds. Might bite someone."

"No amount of socialization negates the need to muzzle you on occasion."

House smirked, but insisted, "I think I'll stay here." He pointed at the bar top for clarification.

Wilson shrugged, thankful that at least House wasn't sulking. "Okay. I'm going to go say hi."

"Whatever." House pulled his GameBoy out of his jacket pocket. "I can occupy myself."

It was like watching a child shirk a family gathering in favor of hiding alone in a dark corner, safe from cheek-pinching aunts and such. Wilson stared at House's hands for a moment, then slid off the stool and reached for House's cheek. House obviously didn't realize what he intended until it was too late, and Wilson had planted one of those stupid little dry goodbye kisses on the other side of his face. House went rigid and flinched on instinct, but Wilson released him and strode away before he could say anything about it. He could practically feel House glaring daggers at the back of his head, and when Wilson turned a corner to reach the table, he was not disappointed to find House still staring him down from the other end of the pub.

The time actually passed rather pleasantly. Two other department heads showed up, plus Kutner and Nurse Brenda, and a few other staffers. They exchanged clinic stories, of course; that was almost a ritual for PPTH employees. Then they switched to family, blew past a brief and ugly stint about politics, and settled on movies for a while. House didn't come over; he didn't even seem mildly interested in what everyone was doing way over by the window. In fact, most of the people sitting with Wilson hadn't even noticed that he was in the pub. So it didn't really come as any sort of surprise when the topic of conversation suddenly landed on him.

"I mean seriously," one of the staff doctors was saying. "The man is beyond impossible."

Chase took a sip of beer and set it down. "Nah, come on, Fletch. House isn't that bad."

Wilson looked up from the brew menu he had been studying and attempted to replay the conversation up to this point. He hadn't been paying all that much attention.

The staff doctor – Gordon Fletcher – shook his head, his bleary eyes betraying a hint of how tipsy he was. "You used to work for him, I know. Of course you defend him."

Wilson frowned and feigned disinterest, his eyes trained back on the menu though he wasn't perusing it any more.

"It's bad enough," Fletcher went on, "that he's a rude son of a bitch, but at least he's a good doctor, right? When he's not getting arrested or sued or something."

Foreman met Wilson's eyes for a bare instant, then turned to Fletcher. "Hey, come on man. Lighten up."

"No, I'm serious." Fletcher suddenly sounded a whole lot more sober. "That Lyamone boy…Jesus. If House had just done his job instead of playing renegade drug cop…Geez, is that enough irony for you? I bet he does have those guys' money. It wouldn't surprise me."

Kutner slammed his beer down and snapped, "Shut up, asshole. Doctor House turned in a meth dealer. Are you really gonna sit there and tell me you think that was wrong?"

Wilson straightened; he'd never heard Kutner raise his voice, not in any context.

Thirteen sat up too, her glance flickering to Wilson without it being obvious. "Guys, maybe we should change the subject."

"No, let him talk," Chase cut in, deceptively laid back. "I wanna hear what he has to say."

"Chase." Foreman glared across the table, then raised his eyebrows at Cameron as if to demand that she do something about her boyfriend.

Fletcher just went on, oblivious to the change in atmosphere. "You know he could've gotten Wilson over here killed."

"Yeah," Brenda snapped, somehow more formidable here than she was at the hospital. "He also could have left me in there to get shot."

Fletcher scoffed. "Please. He just has to be the center of friggin' everything. He must've gotten bored. Batteries probably died in his stupid little game thing." He pantomimed frantically thumbing a handheld game, tongue stuck out and everything.

Thirteen snorted at him. "You really are an ass, aren't you."

"What?" Fletcher demanded. "It's true. Hell, you know it. He nearly got you killed too, ironically with yet another nutty gunman. It's like a pattern, you know?"

One of the other guys, some staff doctor from pediatrics, rolled his eyes. "Fletcher, shut your pie hole."

Wilson's eyes slid down to the edge of the table; he couldn't lift them to save his life. "House was trying to save the kid."

"Well, yeah," Fletcher replied, still dense as a brick wall. "Headlines are better that way."

"He doesn't like publicity," Wilson insisted, his mind tripping over the expression on House's face when Wilson had threatened to throw him a book-publishing party.

Fletcher hooked a finger in Wilson's face. "I saw the security footage. That guy stuffed a gun in your face."

Wilson flinched. He didn't want to talk about this - he hadn't even flirted with the subject in therapy, much less with himself. In spite of his aversion, Wilson mumbled, "He wouldn't have let him kill me." And it was true; House had shouted as much from behind the barrier of his bedroom door as if it were a sin to even contemplate caring so much for one person.

"Phht." Fletcher gazed at his ale, one finger tracing beads of condensation around the mug handle, and then he perked up as if something had just occurred to him.

Wilson sunk lower in his seat, casting Fletcher a shifty glance; here it comes, the same stupid old question…

Fletcher turned on Wilson. "How can you even stand him? They say he broke up your marriages, and we all know he nearly got you fired. Twice." Fletcher glanced around the table for confirmation. "It was twice, right?" Then he peered over at Wilson again. "What the hell is it with you two?"

"Okay," Brenda interrupted loudly. "I think you've had enough." She reached across the table and plucked Fletcher's beer from his coaster.

Fletcher didn't even notice it go. "Wilson…James, seriously. The man is a parasite. You can't possibly get anything out of it; he's just sucking you dry."

Chase was glaring openly now, his head listing to one side, chewing on a straw. "Go on, Fletch. Dig yourself deeper."

Wilson cast Chase a startled, angry glance.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Fletcher asked. "It's true! House doesn't even do his job, much less…well, anything else. He's costing the hospital money."

One of the department heads reluctantly inserted, "His name is enough to bring in certain donors, though. He _is_ an asset."

A nurse Wilson didn't know sneered at that. "Oh, stop. Can you imagine what it would be like without him? _I'd _be happy. Delirious, even."

Brenda pursed her lips but didn't comment, though Wilson imagined that she would assign bedpan duty to that nurse at her first opportunity.

Fletcher ignored all of them and demanded of Wilson, "What the hell could you possibly be getting from him, anyway?"

Wilson left off trying to catch Chase's eye and leaned back in his chair, too languid to be anything but supremely pissed off now. "Great sex," he deadpanned.

The table went deathly silent. Thirteen drained her glass and then swallowed back what appeared to be a nervous burp of some sort.

"What's the matter, Fletch?" Wilson taunted. "I thought everybody knew. All that gossip you're so fond of soaking up…the speculation… Surely you're not surprised."

Fletcher drew back and then scooted his chair away from Wilson.

Wilson snorted. "Afraid you'll get cooties on you? The gay isn't contagious, you know. But if you want a second opinion, the infectious disease specialist is right over there." He indicated the bar with a curt tip of his head.

"Jesus," Fletcher swore. "For real? You two are doing it?"

"Fletch, you should shut up now," Foreman warned.

Fletcher ignored him and focused on Wilson. "But he's a jerk. You could do so much better. Hell, you could – "

"Wilson?"

A few of the table's occupants cringed, and Wilson tipped his head all the way back to look upside down at House. "Um."

"I'm leaving." House nodded toward the door, his gaze flickering over the rest of the table. "Called a cab."

"You don't have to – "

"It's fine. Got things to do."

Wilson shut his eyes at the ceiling, his ears attuned to House stumping toward the door, and then he looked back down at Fletcher. "Asshole."

Fletcher rolled his eyes. "Man, loosen up. It's just House."

Foreman threw some bills on the table and stood up. "You know what? I'm changing my answer." He looked at Wilson. "Yes, I consider House my friend. Especially if that's the alternative." He jerked his chin at Fletcher and snagged his coat off the back of chair. "Have a nice night."

Thirteen watched him storm out, then drew an uncomfortable breath. "Well."

Chase was busy chuckling to himself. He pulled the straw from his mouth and pointed the chewed-up end at Fletcher. "I always knew you were a dick."

Fletcher glared back.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and spun off of his stool too. "It's been fun," he stated, shoving his arms through his coat. "Remind me not to try it again."

"Wilson." Cameron caught at his arm as he sucked in his gut to squeeze past her.

"It's fine," Wilson assured her. "Don't worry about it." He tugged free of her grasp and made his way out of the pub.

Once outside, Wilson leaned back against the building and sucked in a deep breath. That could not have gone much worse. A low murmur of voices reached his ears and Wilson gazed down the street to see if it actually was House. Sure enough, House had found a bench to sprawl on, but it was Foreman who actually caught Wilson's eye. He had taken a seat next to House, and as Wilson watched, House warily eyed his fellow before offering him a cigarette. House already had one lit for himself. After a brief hesitation, Foreman shrugged and took one even though he didn't seem like the smoking sort. To confirm that, Foreman bent forward with a coughing fit the moment he got the thing lit. Wilson smiled, pushed off the building, and quietly ambled toward them with his hands in his pockets. He caught the conversation right as it started, since Foreman had been delayed by catching his breath.

"He's an asshole," Foreman said flatly.

"I know." House took a long drag on the cigarette and took an interest in the passing cars. "Why are you out here?"

"Because he's an asshole."

House's head turned a fraction; Wilson could only see the back of his head, but he imagined House's penetrating stare as he puzzled over Foreman's possible motivations for being there. "Uh-huh." In apparent dismissal, House faced the street again, but Wilson knew that he was still diagnosing, as it were; his poise gave it away.

"You should ignore him," Foreman pressed, far more persistent than an employee should be with his boss.

House turned his head sharply, then demanded, "What are you doing?"

"Being nice. Shut up and enjoy it." Foreman tried to suck on the cigarette again, but he ended up stuck in another coughing fit.

This, of course, made House snicker. "Too rich for you?"

"Shut up," Foreman choked, and then he gave up on the cigarette and flung it away from himself as hard as he could. The wind took it and it ended up no farther than the gutter in front of him. Foreman recovered his breath and settled back on the bench. "And I mean it; you shouldn't listen to him. He's an arrogant, narcissistic bastard."

House scoffed. "So am I."

"No," Foreman replied lowly.

"No?" House asked, incredulous.

"No. You don't love yourself. You don't even like yourself."

House stared at him, immobile, then went back to his cigarette without a word. Just as Wilson drew abreast of the bench, House muttered, "True," as if they were talking about any old inconsequential thing. As Wilson's shadow fell over him, House leaned back to see his face. With false cheer, he chirped, "Wilson. What's up?"

"It was getting stuffy in there," Wilson replied. "Let's go."

House shrugged and bent over to stub the cigarette out on the ground. "Okay." He grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet, then limped off toward the Volvo without any sort of goodbye.

Wilson nodded to Foreman. "Thanks."

"For what?" Foreman asked. "I didn't do anything." He stood up too and clapped Wilson on the shoulder. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Wilson told him.

"Yeah. Sure it is." Foreman dug his hands into his pockets and headed back toward the pub.

Wilson watched him go, then checked the traffic before he hurried across the street. House was already lounging against his car, examining his fingers in the twilight. When Wilson unlocked the doors, House merely sank into the passenger seat and made himself comfortable. The ride back to the hotel was oppressive at best.

--TBC


	31. Chapter 31

Wilson pulled his keys from the ignition and cast a mournful glance up the side of the hotel, past curtained windows ringed at the seams by the lights shining within. Everyone outside the bubble of the Volvo got to worry about piddly things like sightseeing and the amount of crap that would show up in their inboxes after they got back from vacation. Wilson got to worry about pills and drug dealers, and now homophobic coworkers. Beside him, House hadn't moved. In fact, he hadn't done anything since they had pulled away from the pub aside from shift his leg around a few times and unwind the pipe cleaners he had twisted around his cane. A pile of the fuzzy wire craft toys littered the floor mat between his feet. Wilson couldn't tell what emotion laid behind the silent façade any more than he could divine the motivation for decorating his cane with child's toys in the first place.

"Well," Wilson said just to break the silence. "I guess we're out now."

House turned from the window, his head swiveling as if divorced from the rest of his body. Like a motorized mannequin. "_That's_ what you said to him? That we're sleeping together?"

Wilson wilted at the empty, cold quality of his voice. "It wasn't intentional."

"Oh, well. That makes it better." House turned to glare out the windshield. "For a second there, I thought your sole motivation in professing your undying commitment to me was to win a pissing contest with an overbearing, opinionated jerk." Then he heaved a sigh and dug a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. "I'll meet you in the room."

"House, do you seriously have to – "

House climbed out of the car and slammed the door.

Wilson slumped back and groaned at the ceiling. " – smoke in front of an oncologist?" He made a frustrated face at the felt above him, nose scrunched and nostrils flared, then contorted himself over the center console to reach the glove box. He had to have something in there to feed House's stupid oral need, and knowing House, there were red lollipops hidden somewhere in this car, since he spent so much time in it. House had a subtle manner of staking his claims on people, which included leaving innocuous possessions hidden in corners of the other person's territory, things that only House would have a use for. Like red suckers.

The suckers turned up in the door pocket on House's side of the car, and Wilson grabbed one before flinging himself out of the Volvo and stalking over to the bench that House was sitting on a hundred feet from the hotel entrance. Designated smoking area. Wilson stomped up to him, ignored House's startled look and the way he shied at the sight of Wilson bearing down on him in a temper. Wilson swiped the cigarette from House's hand, hissing as he burnt himself in the process, and slapped the sucker into House's palm. "If you have to suck on something, suck on that."

House raised an eyebrow at him as Wilson dropped the cigarette and flapped his hand as if it would dilute the sting. Then House sneered at the candy. "What, you're gonna police all my bad habits now?"

Wilson blinked at him without a trace of emotion, then shouted, "You have a clotting disorder!"

"_Possible_ clotting disorder," House shot back. "The tests were _inconclusive_."

"Yeah," Wilson mocked. "That's the perfect justification for being an idiot. You had an infarction!"

"Which could have been caused by anything." House looked at the sucker clenched in his fist, then furiously shoved it in his pocket. "I could've bashed my knee on the headboard while making sweet, passionate love to Stacy. Or maybe I had one too many greasy cheeseburgers and the lard went to my leg. Are you going to control my diet next? Withhold sex for safety purposes?"

Wilson smashed his face into his palms, thereby muffling the string of obscenities that snuck past his lips. Then he growled and dropped his hands to regard House with his head cocked to one side. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"To _you_?" House stared at him, then gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, I forgot. Everything's about you. I take a crap, it's because of you. I smoke a cigarette, it's just a veiled, pitiful attempt to get a rise out of you." He glared up at Wilson for a moment, emotions held thinly in check, then burst out, "Well, fuck you!"

"Oh, that's mature." Wilson planted his hands on his hips and ignored the flare of pain when khaki abraded the burned patch on his palm. "And no, it's not all about me. It's about you and your addictive personality disorder! You just can't stop yourself from doing whatever the hell crosses your mind first. You don't _think_, House! You have zero self control! If you could just stop for twenty seconds and consider the consequences before you do something, then maybe you'd realize I'm right!"

House balked on the bench, staring up at him, and then the ugliest sort of fury washed over House's features. As he struggled to his feet, he got up into Wilson's face to snap, "You son of a bitch. You have no right – "

"I have every right – you're my partner!"

"Oh, I'm _yours_ now." A dangerous quality overtook House's voice. "And I suppose you know what's best for me, do you?"

"Maybe I do," Wilson replied, angry, his voice trembling with poorly suppressed rage. "Maybe if you could stop being such a stubborn ass, you'd get your act together and knock this shit off."

"Who the hell do you think you are?!" House demanded, his frame listing toward the arm that supported him on his cane. "It's my life!"

"Yeah, and I have to sit here and watch you fuck it up. Again and again, House. It's like you never learn!"

House's lip twitched, and then he spat, "You are _not_ my _father_!" The moment he realized what he'd said, House's eyes grew wide and incredulous, and then he checked himself.

Neither of them spoke for a moment; Wilson wasn't even certain that they breathed. A car horn blared out on the street, a spike driven into a surreal moment, and Wilson noticed House's eyes flickering over the ground between them as he sorted himself out. Wilson took a step back and hesitantly held up his hands. "Okay," he hedged. "I may have crossed a line somewhere."

House sucked in a fractured breath as he glanced at Wilson, and then he dug through his pocket with uneven, jerky movements. He slammed the pack of cigarettes against Wilson's chest, jarring him back a step, and then he rushed past Wilson without waiting to see if Wilson took them. The sliding lobby doors had already closed over his lopsided form by the time Wilson recovered from his shock. He spun around and ran to catch up.

The elevator doors were closing by the time Wilson jogged into the lobby, so he paused for a moment, then ran off to the stairs. The desk clerk called a bewildered greeting after him, but he ignored her. The trip up three flights left Wilson winded, but he burst through the stairwell door, huffing and puffing like the out of shape doctor he was, just as House keyed open their room door. "House – "

But House shut the door on him, leaving Wilson to scramble in his wallet for his own keycard. He half expected House to latch the slide bolt, preventing Wilson from getting in at all, but the door swung open unhindered. Wilson scrambled into the room just as the bathroom door slammed shut, and a second later, the latch engaged.

Wilson let the hotel room door swing closed on its own, and flattened his palms against the bathroom door. "House? Are you all right?" From the other side, Wilson heard House's cane clack against the tiles. "House!"

"Go away."

"God…look, I'm sorry. It was a stupid thing to fight over."

"Get the fuck away from me!" House shuffled toward the door, and then Wilson jerked back when it shook under the impact of what he guessed was House's shoulder. The creak of leather followed as House slid down the door, then his sneakers squeaked against the tiles and he hit the floor with a soft plop of clothed limbs.

Wilson peered down at the base of the door, the crack beneath occluded by the shadow of House's body. "House, talk to me. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm not yours! I'm mine!"

Wilson blinked at the door. "I… Are you crying?"

A loud hiccup filled the air, then nothing.

"House… Come on. Unlock the door." Wilson slapped his palm against the painted aluminum surface, and he heard House jump on the other side. "I shouldn't have said those things, okay? I wasn't thinking." He paused, waiting for a response. "House, open up!"

"No! Go away! Don't fucking come in here!"

"Jesus, you _are_ crying." Wilson lowered himself to the floor to speak at what he took to be ear-level. In as reasonable and neutral a voice as possible, Wilson pled, "House, please open the door. If you don't want to talk, I won't say anything else, just open up. That's all I'm asking."

"_No_!"

Wilson stopped for moment, disconcerted by the note of high-pitched hysteria that had infiltrated House's voice. Then he then ventured to ask, "Are you having a panic attack?"

House shifted against the door, jostling it against the jamb, and started sobbing, "No, no, no…"

The raw terror and despair in House's voice doused Wilson's heart in ice water; he had to struggle to breathe for a second. "House… House, open up. House, _please_. Listen to me… Listen. You're okay, but you have to open the door. Come on, buddy."

House moved again, and from the muffled quality of his chant, Wilson pictured him with his knees drawn to his chest, curled over to hide his face. "Please…" House moaned, so broken and alone that sympathetic tears clouded Wilson's vision. Then House knocked himself against the door again, choked over his breathing, and insisted, "I'm okay…I'm okay, I'm okay…"

"God…House." Wilson huddled up against the door, his hands spread wide against it as if he could will House to feel his touch. "Just reach up and turn the lock. House…House, look up. Come on."

House's mumbling degenerated into silent sobs and wretched attempts to pull in a full drought of air; his lungs hitched more than once on each inhale.

Wilson had never seen House like this, never heard it… It seized Wilson's chest and wrung it into tight, suffocating knots, more so because he knew that he had set this off himself. "House, you're okay. I promise, nothing bad's happening." He thumped a fist weakly against the door out of impotent frustration. "Say something! House…"

It sounded like House was choking over his own terror, and Wilson dashed his palms over his eyes to get rid of the excess moisture there. He spun around, still crouched against the door, and scanned the room for something to pick the lock. Not that he was any good at picking locks, but he couldn't just sit there and listen to this. He could probably call Foreman, but House would kill him for letting an employee see him like this.

Frustrated and scared, Wilson turned back to the door and grabbed the handle. It turned, but wouldn't open. Wilson swore under his breath and pressed his forehead to the cool painted aluminum. He had never felt so consumed by his own uselessness. "House, listen to me. I'm not gonna hurt you, but you have to open the door. House…can you hear me? Say you can hear me. Tell me you're okay. House, tell me you're okay. You have to talk to me. Tell me what to do."

"N-no. No t-talking. No."

That was something, at least. It was contact. "Okay, I'll stop talking just as soon as you open up. House, open up."

"_No_!" It was as close to a shriek as House's voice could get, even if it weren't weakened by lack of oxygen and rough from crying. And from the sounds of things, he was rocking back and forth. The mental image that Wilson conjured up was spectacularly pitiful. "I hate you! Fuck yourself and die, you fucking bastard!"

Wilson balked and then shook his head, fresh tears springing to his eyes. He wasn't even sure if House knew that he was screaming at Wilson anymore. That made it easier to decide to call Foreman. With luck, he was still at or near the pub, and he could be here in under ten minutes. "House, if you don't unlock the door, I'm going to call Foreman to pick it." He paused to listen to a litany of mumbled curses interspersed with desperate pleas and whimpers. House sounded completely gone, and it broke Wilson's heart. "House, _please_, for the love of god. Just let me in." Wilson could barely speak now, he was so disconcerted and upset; he could feel himself trembling from fear and adrenaline. "Okay. I'm calling Foreman. Just…just hang on, okay? House…you're not alone. It's going to be alright."

When he got no answer, Wilson dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Foreman's number. This was the second time in two days. Wilson wondered how much longer he had before all his favors ran out; he was fast becoming a nuisance. Foreman picked up immediately, from his car, and Wilson babbled something about House and panic attacks. He thanked god that Foreman merely interrupted with a vow to be there in five minutes, and then he hung up. Wilson crawled back up against the door and ran his hand back and forth over it, petting and rubbing it as if it were House's back or shoulder, listening to House sob and fight to calm himself only to start begging unintelligibly and then coughing over his failed attempt a minute later. Wilson spoke to him ceaselessly though he had no idea if it did any good, and all he could offer were pointless assurances that he was fine, and everything was fine, and Wilson was right there, and please won't he just unlock the door.

Foreman's knock jarred Wilson out of a trance, and he scrambled up off the floor to let him in. Thirteen had come too, which he should have expected; he let her in as well, though he really wanted to insist that she go wait in the lobby or call a cab, anything just to get rid of her. It was bad enough that he'd been forced to call Foreman to witness this; he didn't want her judging the both of them too.

Foreman made quick work of the bathroom lock, and he and Wilson shoved hard to get it open, what with House's weight braced against it. A scuffle ensued, and the next thing Wilson knew, he and Foreman were tumbling into the bathroom at the sudden lack of resistance. The door smashed into the bathroom wall and Wilson careened sideways into the floor. He lifted his head and rolled. Foreman caught himself against the bathtub before he fell on top of Wilson. Then they both lunged for House, who had somehow managed to cram his six-foot-three frame halfway behind the toilet.

House kicked as they grabbed for him, and Foreman swore, staggering from the impact to his shin. Wilson had more luck and managed to scrabble up and grab House's shoulder. "House, calm down. It's only me, it's – "

"No! Don't touch me – _no_!" House flailed in a bid to smack him.

Nervously loitering in the doorway, Thirteen remarked, "Somebody's going to call the cops."

"House!" Wilson snagged a wrist only to have House try and bite him, which was horrifying in its own right.

"No ice, no, no ice…"

"There's no ice," Wilson told him. He ducked and grabbed a fistful of House's shirt, then dragged him back far enough to get his arms wrapped over House's chest and shoulders from behind, like some sort of amateur wrestling move. House retaliated by hugging the base of the toilet, his arms reaching all the way around, and nothing Wilson could do would dislodge him. "House, it's okay. Nobody's going to hurt you. I promise, no one will hurt you. You can let go."

Foreman crawled around to the other side of the toilet, in the cramped sliver of space between porcelain and the wall, and attempted to pry House's arms off the bowl. "Wilson, do you have any sedatives?"

"I have Ativan," Wilson replied, crammed up behind House far enough to nose at the hair at the nape of House's neck. "But good luck getting him to swallow it."

"What about the morphine I brought last night?"

"You want to drug him up with a narcotic?" Wilson demanded, angry and incredulous. "No! Absolutely not. He'll just have nightmares and scream all night."

Thirteen broke in from the safe zone beyond the door. "Doctor Wilson, he's going to hurt himself."

House quaked and tightened his grip on the toilet bowl, his face buried in the crook of his own arm, still kicking out half-heartedly at Wilson's legs and the towels that had fallen from the rack above them. "No…no ice…"

"House, there's no ice," Wilson insisted, perhaps too forcefully. House jerked and scrambled to obtain better purchase on the toilet bowl, inadvertently clawing Foreman in the process.

"Ow!" Foreman swore and recoiled. "God dammit."

House whimpered at Foreman's tone and fought harder to maintain his grip.

"Shh-shh-shh…no, it's okay." Wilson braced his foot against the bathtub and pushed himself farther in behind House, shifting his left arm so that he could run it through House's hair, petting him like a cat. "It's okay, House," he soothed softly, his lips resting against House's neck. "It's okay. Calm down, breathe…it's okay, I promise." Something House had once said to him, riding in the back of an ambulance while Amber coded between them, floated to the front of his mind, and Wilson enjoined, "Don't get lost. Okay? Just try to come back."

Foreman pulled himself free of the cubbyhole beside the toilet and backed up against the doorjamb with his gouged hand cradled in the opposite palm. "Jesus Christ. I'd like to get my hands on his father and kick the dying shit out of him."

"Get in line," Wilson murmured, keeping his voice low and steady. House had quieted some, though his safety grip on the toilet remained as fierce as ever. At least he was no longer kicking, but that was probably only because Wilson had thrown his leg over House's and scissored them together.

Thirteen bent down to look at Foreman's hand, her poise deceptively nonchalant. "His dad made him like this?"

Foreman looked up at her. "As your boss, you did not hear that. You weren't even here."

"Hear what?" Thirteen leaned in to snatch one of the towels from the floor, and Foreman pressed it to the back of his hand. "Not that it's a good excuse for being an ass, but I think I'm glad the man's dead."

"Yeah," Foreman laughed, his voice devoid of even the slightest hint of humor. "No shit."

House gulped in a few deeper breaths and shuddered in Wilson's grasp. "Sorry…m'sorry…"

Wilson couldn't tell if House was talking to them or not, so he merely crooned, "You're okay, House. Come back to me. You're safe now."

"You know," Foreman remarked, sounding out of place. "It would probably be best if he didn't know we were here."

Wilson experienced an odd pang at thought of being left alone there on the floor of a utilitarian hotel bathroom, but Foreman was right. "Yeah. I can handle it now." Maybe. He hoped.

"You sure?" Foreman asked. His voice carried an unusual degree of concern, at least compared to what he normally expressed toward House. "We could stay in the parking lot for a little while, just in case you need us."

A flood of relief washed through Wilson's veins at that, and he lifted his head to gaze over the rim of the toilet. "I'd really appreciate that. I know you have a thousand better things to do."

But Foreman shook his head. "Nah. I meant what I said at O'Sullivan's, and I don't leave my friends hanging."

To mitigate the impending sappy moment, Thirteen chimed in with, "I'm sure we can make it time well spent. Car sex makes me feel dirty." From her tone and the coy little wrinkle of her nose, she liked feeling dirty.

Foreman and Wilson blinked at her in unison, and Wilson merely said, "Um."

Foreman glanced back at Wilson and blandly announced, "We're gonna go now."

"I would too," Wilson replied in an identical tone.

Thirteen looked at Wilson and told him, "Text us when the coast is clear."

"Sure."

A scramble ensued as Foreman climbed awkwardly to his feet, and then they made their way silently from the hotel room.

Once the hall door snicked shut behind them, Wilson ducked back down and folded himself more firmly around House. "Hey. How are you doing?"

House mumbled incoherently into his arm, a pathetic whine that made Wilson hold him closer.

"Do you know where you are?"

A second passed, and then House mewled, "Wilson?"

"Yeah. I'm right here." Wilson tucked his head in against House's shoulder and laid a chaste kiss on the cotton of his button down.

House shivered in response and loosened his grip around the toilet bowl.

"That's good, House. See? Everything's okay." Wilson combed his fingers through House's hair, sticking on sweaty clumps. The entire room reeked of fear.

"I didn't – " House's voice caught on a tattered edge and he hiccupped over it. "…didn't know there was…bullets in it…didn't…"

Wilson shut his eyes for a moment, then croaked, "It's okay, House. Nobody's mad at you."

"_He_ is!" House insisted, and then he started squirming at the mere thought of it.

"Shh…it's okay." Wilson's breath stuttered and he swallowed to force his voice back to some semblance of calm. "He's not here, House."

"Don't tell him…please don't tell him…"

"I won't tell him," Wilson promised, his voice cracking.

House heaved a few more panicked breaths, then relaxed a fraction in Wilson's arms, whispering, "Please…please, don't tell…"

Wilson's voice broke. "I won't. House, I swear I won't. Nobody will. He can't hurt you anymore."

House whimpered as if he couldn't fathom that, but at least he didn't tense up again.

Wilson glanced down the tangled lengths of their bodies to where House's bad leg lay crooked awkwardly over one of Wilson's. "Hey," Wilson ventured. "Why don't we get out of here, huh? You can lay down in bed. It won't hurt your leg so much."

House sniffed and tilted his face just far enough away from his arm to reveal his eyes. He blinked at the piping behind the toilet, then turned his head to peer at Wilson's hand covering part of his arm. Wet smeared his face, glistening in the brightly lit bathroom, frosting the stubble on his cheeks.

Wilson craned his neck so that House could see his face, and smiled, his expression rather queasy. "Hi."

Painfully blue irises stared back, the skin around his eyes swollen and red, and House's breath hitched right before he swallowed. His voice gruff and raw, House rasped, "Wilson."

"Yeah." Wilson swallowed too, emotions running down his throat where he hoped House couldn't see them. He couldn't tell if House really knew what was going on, or that he was in a hotel room instead of his father's house. "You wanna go lie down?"

House stared at him, lost and alone in spite of Wilson's limbs twined around him. "I didn't mean to break it."

Wilson swallowed. Hard. Then he nodded and repeated, "He'll never know."

House gazed back at him, gauging Wilson's sincerity, seeming somehow smaller in that moment. Just a frightened, doe-eyed little boy. His tongue stuck to his lips when he sought to moisten them, and then he blinked. "Okay."

"Okay," Wilson breathed. "Come on."

Wilson struggled to work his way out from the tiny space that House had crammed himself in without hurting either one of them, and then carefully helped House out as well. House's movements were stiff, tired, and he remained as docile as a drugged kitten while Wilson drew him to his feet. Once they were both standing, House glanced around the small bathroom in confusion, but he didn't comment on it; he let Wilson lead him out by the hand, squeezing Wilson's fingers in his own as if Wilson were his only anchor to a safe place not sequestered far away in his head.

It took half an hour for Wilson to get House calmed down enough to sleep, and as he finally drifted off, Wilson let himself break a little bit. "I'm so sorry, House." He kept his voice low, not even a whisper over the shush of the air conditioning unit under the window. He wasn't sure what he was apologizing before, but he thought it had something to do with not being able to make this, whatever it was, just go away. Definitely, he was apologizing for whatever he had said to precipitate this. Wilson's fingers trembled over House's heart, where he had placed them just a few seconds ago. A few solitary tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and Wilson snuffled to keep his nose clear. "Just…sleep now. Okay? Have good dreams?"

House breathed on, slow and deep, salty patches dried in white frosted streaks and smears all over his face.

"Okay," Wilson whispered. The word shivered on his tongue. "Okay."

Once he was certain that House wouldn't wake, Wilson eased off the bed and located his cell phone on the floor where he had dropped it after he called Foreman. He sent a text to tell them that they could go home now, then stretched carefully out alongside House's prone form. He thought that he would have trouble falling asleep, but exhaustion took him sooner than expected. With all of the lights still on, they slept. On the surface, it looked peaceful.

* * *

Wilson climbed up from the gravel when his brother approached him. The sky swirled in bursts of purple and pink with a hint of orange thrown in, streaked like one of the finger paintings hanging in the pediatric oncology ward. In fact, he could see the thumb and index finger prints hovering above some fuzzy buildings, right where some patient had left them. Little prints, from a child's hand. The hotel parking lot extended all around Wilson, but the hotel itself was nowhere in sight. Wilson turned back to Danny, brushing pale gray dust from the seat of his pants. "Where's House?"

Danny smiled, innocent and sweet the way he had before the schizophrenia manifested. So basically, he was in grade school but he somehow stood as tall as Wilson. Maybe Wilson was in grade school too, but that didn't make much sense; he was almost eight years older than Danny. They should never be the same age.

In response to Wilson's question, Danny held out his hand, palm up. Sitting upright on it was a Pez dispenser with a little red birthday candle sitting on top, flame flickering in a nonexistent wind. The plastic head of the candy dispenser had melted a little, as if Danny had held the match too close. Red waxdripped to fuse with the flesh-colored plastic, but a lopsided pair of green eyes still blazed in what had originally been its face.

Wilson looked at the mangled candy dispenser, then frowned back at Danny. "No. _House_. Where's _House_?"

With a shrug, Danny offered up his other hand, cupping a pile of shiny copper pennies, so many that they should have overflowed his palm and spilled all over the ground at their feet. In defiance of physics, they remained stuck in a mound on top of Danny's splayed fingers.

"Right." Wilson flared his nostrils and plucked the Pez dispenser from Danny's palm.

"I got a B," Danny stated. He was holding a green telephone in place of the Pez that Wilson had just taken.

"That's nice." Wilson had to dig his thumb against the plastic Pez head before it would pop back to present him with a Vicodin. "I need to find House. He needs his meds."

"I was right, Jamie. I was right – he hates me," Danny cried. "He wants me out of his class. I have to take his class, Jamie – it's a pre-req. Why won't he give me an A? I deserve an A. The guy next to me got an A."

Wilson stared blankly at Danny, then turned to scan the parking lot, hoping for a glimpse of House.

"Jamie, what if he tries something else to get me out of his class? I knew I shouldn't have taken it." Danny fretted behind Wilson, then scuttled up to thrust his handful of pennies in Wilson's face. "Look what he gave me! They were in my dorm – I found them all over the floor in the laundry room. I know he left them for me to find. He thinks I won't know they're from him, but I do. Jamie, it's a sign! He must know I figured it out – that's why he gave me a B. Jamie, he knows! You have to help me. What if he tries to get me again? What if the pennies get into my room, or my bed – Jamie, what if he puts them in my bed? I'll sleep on them!"

Wilson sidestepped him and shuffled across the empty rows of parking spaces. "I don't have time for this. I have to find House."

"Jamie, wait!" Danny ran up to him and shoved the green phone into his hand. "In case he calls. You have to answer if he calls."

"Yeah," Wilson mumbled. "I can't hang up on him."

"If you do, they'll send him pennies. He'll be just like me – they'll hide the pennies in his bed, and he won't know, and he'll sleep on them. You have to find them all before he sleeps on them."

"Yes," Wilson agreed. "I can't let him know about the pennies." He hefted the Pez dispenser and strode off in search of House, his shoes slogging through gravel deep and pliant enough to encumber his steps. He walked into the glass-enclosed bus stop and sat down on the bench. House would show up soon; he needed his fuzzy ball. Wilson picked the fuzzy ball up off the ground and set it in his lap for safekeeping, next to the green phone.

A bright red trolley car straight out of an old-fashioned rice commercial pulled up in front of him, electric antennae connected to nothing, running on a track painted over the gravel. A disembodied announcer called out, "Next stop: Argosi!" Nothing happened for a moment, and then Amber swung to the ground with a faint smile trailing across her lips. The trolley bell dinged and then it rolled away, rocking gently in a cloud of steam. Along the side of the car, a pasted advertisement told Wilson that smoking led to blood clots, cancer and meningitis.

When Amber sat down next to him, Wilson turned a puzzled frown on her. "Smoking doesn't cause meningitis."

"No," Amber replied, disinterested, her blond hair highlighted in orange streaks from the finger-painted sunrise. "It causes Parkinson's, kidney failure and litter. Five hundred dollar fine."

Wilson grunted his agreement; she always did make a good point. After gazing at the gravel and the toy trolley sitting toppled over a few feet away, Wilson asked, "Where's House?"

Amber shrugged. "House is home. I told him not to go, but he's House."

"Yeah. Nobody can tell him anything." Wilson slumped back. "I have his meds."

"You shouldn't have those," Amber remarked, soft and feminine in the acrylic light. "You'll forget him."

"No, I won't," Wilson argued, but his heart wasn't in it. He watched plastic army men crawl out of the toy trolley. They rescued stacks of pennies from the wreckage, five pennies to a stack.

Amber got up to steal some pennies from the trolley. While setting inert plastic army men back on their little plastic bases, she commented, "He doesn't care if you hate him."

"He said he does," Wilson countered.

"_You_ said he does." Amber straightened and kicked gravel at the discarded toys at her feet. "All he said is what matters." She smiled at him and scolded, "You should stop putting words in his mouth. He hates that."

Wilson sighed. "Yeah, I know. He should put his own words in his mouth then." He worked a penny out of the Pez dispenser and flicked it at the crumpled toy trolley.

"You know he can't do that," Amber reminded him. Her red scarf billowed out behind her but the air was still. "He's not allowed to talk about things."

"John told him not to talk about things."

Lacerations blossomed across her arms and face, souvenirs of the bus crash. "So did you."

John House walked over from his former place amongst the plastic army men, decked out in his funeral dress uniform. His swagger made Wilson sick; ice chips dropped from his clothing as he proudly proclaimed, "Gregory never learns."

Wilson blinked at the man, so like House and yet not. They looked alike, walked alike, but John was no blood relation to Wilson's friend. "What did you do to him?"

"Gave him lessons. Where would he be without lessons? Probably dead in a gutter… Hell, you know that. You teach him too. It never sticks, does it? Ungrateful bastard. He always was impossible to deal with."

Wilson glanced around, hoping for a glimpse of House, but there was nothing in the parking lot. Turning back to John, Wilson shakily vowed, "I won't let you have him."

"He's already mine," John replied, his assertion delivered with a sharp edge.

"No, he's not."

"What makes you think he even wants you?" John demanded. "Look at you. What have you got to offer?"

Wilson held up the Pez dispenser.

Danny moaned behind him and cowered away. "Jamie…make him stop."

"You think you can do better than me, boy?" John snapped. His belt cracked in the air when he flicked it. "You think you can screw him without screwing him up?" He jabbed a finger in Wilson's direction, then kept poking with each sentence he spit in Wilson's face, menacing for the sole fact that he looked _so_ much like Greg. "Damn fairy. I got there first. He's mine. And he'll stay mine. He won't talk to you. Why should he? You're worse than I am. I taught him how to be a man - to take it, and shut the hell up. Only pansy-ass girls whine and cry; he knows that now. He won't come crying to you. He's just an addict to you, a fucking cripple with a habit, bitching and complaining over nothing. It's just a fucking leg. He should suck it up. Thank god you taught him he's not worth shit."

"You did that first!" Wilson shouted.

"You did it better. _My_ lessons didn't stick. You're a wonder. Boy wonder. I should take lessons from you."

"What?" Wilson staggered back a step, the green phone clutched safely to his chest. Danny latched onto his arm to make him stay; his brother was just a boy again, a tiny boy whose chin barely brushed Wilson's elbow. "Yeah," Wilson snarled. "I'll give you a fucking lesson."

"Give yourself one while you're at it. He doesn't care if you hate him, moron." John sounded so much like House, had the same icy blue eyes when he was pissed off, his voice laced with that signature military drawl that almost sounded Texan. "Everyone hates him; he's a pain in the ass. I taught him that. That's not what matters."

Wilson shook his head while Danny dialed the phone – dial-a-Wilson. "Then what matters?"

"What you think of him. Don't you listen? You're supposed to be his fucking friend. Hell, _I've _got better friends than you."

"Jamie, the phone." Danny pressed the receiver to Wilson's ear. "You have to stay on the phone." He wore a shiny hat made of pennies, blood red pennies that shone in the light from the rising sun.

Wilson pulled away and then picked Danny up, propping him on his hip like a grown man would normally hold a small child, even though Danny was six feet tall again, just like Wilson; his feet dragged in the gravel. Danny thrust the phone at Wilson's ear, but he wasn't real anymore; Danny was a Pez doll with a melted head that flipped back to dispense chalky pills the size of eggs.

Wilson took a pill so that Danny could close his mouth, then told John, "I have to find House."

"House is home," John replied. "You'll just get in the way. Best let him be."

"Screw you!" Wilson yelled. "Where'd you put him?"

"Someplace you'll never find. He's mine."

"You can go to hell." Wilson whirled around and folded the adult-size Danny up on the bus bench so he could fit like a jack-in-the-box. Then Wilson unhanded him and grabbed the fuzzy ball instead. He brushed past John and claimed the toy trolley as well, but it disintegrated and fell through his fingers. "Dammit!" Wilson crouched and collected as many pieces as fit in his hand, but every time he picked one up, another would fall out. He couldn't hold them all.

Finally, Wilson just tried to stand up, but his legs weren't strong enough anymore; he kept falling sideways, and then he had to pick up the fuzzy ball again, and the trolley pieces that all looked like EKG leads, and the green phone, and the Vicodin egg. Still crouched on the ground, Wilson glanced over his shoulder to ask Amber for help, but she was a plastic army man surrounded by the crumbled trolley pieces that Wilson didn't have hands enough to pick up. His fingers slipped through all the stupid useless things in his palm, like water or sand, and when the egg fell out, it shattered to spill Vicodin across the ground. The pills mixed with the gravel; Wilson couldn't tell them apart.

Wilson let out an inarticulate sob and spun on his heel to keep trying to grab things. What he found were House's sneakers, those damn running shoes he collected the way old women collected Boyd's Bears. The tip of a cane came to rest next to the right sneaker, planted firm in yielding gravel – in an endless expanse of white pills. Wilson dropped everything in his arms and reached up for House, but it wasn't House. It was just Danny. Wilson grabbed his hand anyway and pulled him down to eye level.

Danny smiled at him with his heart leads trailing out behind him on the ground like feathers. "Don't touch me." He spoke in House's gruff voice, that soft tripped up one with the random hoarse spots, the one House had used in Wilson's office when he asked if they were okay, and the word 'okay' ended up getting swallowed at the end by a sudden lack of voice. Right before Wilson told him he wasn't good for anything but spreading misery and sucking people into his insanity with late night phone calls. Just like Danny. "It's a deal breaker."

Wilson shook his head and stood up, whirling to find House himself standing right behind him. "House! I have your meds." He held out the green phone.

House tipped his head to one side, speculative and flat. "You know he's lying, right?" He produced a black dry erase marker and used it to scribble his own eyes out, occluding the last of the luminous blue. Then he told Wilson, "You can see it. He wants you to see it."

Wilson shot out of bed so fast that he nearly fell over onto the unused one. "Oh…" Wilson gasped something else and sank onto the mattress, his legs still rubbery from sleep. "Okay. That was creepy." He glanced at the bed he had just vacated to make sure that he hadn't disturbed House, but an empty pile of lumped and twisted blankets confronted him. He...left? House left?

Wilson's eyes flew over the rest of the murky room and finally alit on House's backpack, the contents strewn all over the little table under the pink and purple dawn-encrusted window. Wilson's first reaction was panic, and he scrambled over to pluck all of the pill bottles from the mess to make sure that none were missing. He lined a total of seven different medications up along the edge of the table; he didn't even know which ones House was still taking, aside from the Warfarin, the Gabapentin, and the ever-present Vicodin. Wilson examined all of the bottles and the dates on the labels to determine that House hadn't taken too many extras, if he had taken any extras at all. Further dampening his panic, Wilson finally noticed the cane propped against the empty chair. House couldn't have gotten far without it. Ice machine, maybe?

Only after Wilson breathed a long sigh of mingled anxiety and relief did he notice the other light piercing the mostly dark room, shining in a thin sliver from the cracked bathroom door. Wilson dropped the pill bottles back onto the pile of random belongings – yoyo, game cartridges, matchbox cars and an assortment of clear plastic balls full of chincy baubles from quarter vending machines, along with a bargain paperback novel of the harlequin variety, some medical journals, a collection of pens and markers, and a few of the ill-begotten letters that Blythe had left him with. Wilson picked one up, but now was not the time. He let the unopened envelope flutter back onto the pile of detritus and trudged across the hotel room in the semi-dark to encounter his cell phone on the floor beside the door stop, where he must have flung it after calling Foreman. When he picked it up, it was still blinking an alarm at him to take his meds. Wilson glanced at the cracked door of the bathroom, ears attuned to the silence issuing from within, then sidetracked to dry swallow his meds, pulling a ridiculous face in the process as he strained to get the capsules to slide down his parched throat. Then he crept back up to the bathroom door.

"House?" Wilson waited a moment, just in case House was actually using the toilet, but when he got no answer, he peeked his head around the corner. "Hey. Are you all…" Wilson's eyes flickered over the bathroom, from House standing at the sink with a dry erase marker, to the mirror covered in his signature diagnostic scrawl, his writing perhaps a little less steady than usual. "…right?"

House started and tossed Wilson a reflexive glance, his eyes owlish and very obviously blue in the too-bright room. For a moment, Wilson's dream invaded the moment and he held his breath, insanely expecting House to use the marker in his hand to black out his eyes. The smell of the marker must have wafted into the hotel room just potently enough that Wilson's subconscious brain perked up to incorporate a Joe Hill moment into his dream. He really should have known he'd regret reading "Heart-Shaped Box"; horror stories never sat well with the dregs of his brain.

After House broke eye contact, Wilson straightened and came all the way in, mute as he took in the writing on the mirror. The list of symptoms, the detailed timetable, the two columns of tests - one of which contained a hurried summary of results and dates while the other seemed pending. Reports of pain ratings going back a year, corresponding to medications and dosages. An escalating detail of the increase, then reduction, then resurgence of anxiety-related symptoms, correlated to the medications. Incidences of seizures from right after the bus crash, which had tapered off and disappeared by September, and hash marks for especially notable episodes after that – flashbacks and panic attacks, and moments of altered consciousness that House referred to as simple partial temporal lobe seizures. Sideways-written notes highlighted far too many accidental overdoses – one of them dated for that night, probably taken right on the bench outside the pub before Foreman walked out to join him – plus one intentional overdose that Wilson studiously refrained from taking too much notice of because it occurred right after Wilson's last day at PPTH. Mitigating injuries and episodes came after that, and side effects from the medications that House had tried in December and January, long before Wilson even knew he was looking for something else to manage his pain. From this, it appeared that Ngyen's regimen had started way back in December. House hadn't tried it for a month and then dropped it, as Wilson had thought; he had tried it for four months straight before deciding to call it quits.

The mirror spanned the entire wall above the sink and toilet, from the countertop to just below the ceiling, and House had covered it all. To call this a comprehensive history was sort of an understatement of laughable proportions. Hell, some of the symptoms – diplopia, migraines, intermittent neuropathy in the extremities, tinnitus, sensory abnormalities, lower limb weakness, scotoma – Wilson hadn't had a clue that House was suffering from most of them. They appeared to correlate in many cases to the start of a new drug or the discontinuation of another, but some persisted or recurred, seemingly at random. House had circled those and joined them to the possible diagnosis column.

"God," Wilson mumbled, still taking it all in. His gaze hit on a mention of Gabapentin, and he noted with a hint of chagrin that House hadn't just stopped taking it cold turkey; he had weaned himself off over the course of about three weeks. Wilson wondered when, exactly, he had come to think that House's recklessness fully compromised his medical sense. He thought perhaps it had been sometime around the wall socket incident. Or at least, that was when Wilson could first recall the cold dread trickling through him every time House voiced a new hair-brained scheme, in jest or otherwise. Wilson balked both at himself and at the mirror, then remarked, "This is a mess."

House glanced over his shoulder again, his eyes falling far short of Wilson. "I know." With a minimal gesture to the plethora of information, he added, his voice raspy from the late hour, "I can't even tell which ones are drug side effects or symptoms anymore."

Wilson tried to catch his eye and failed when House turned back to the mirror, so Wilson attempted to meet his gaze in the glass instead. Brown and blue locked beneath the list of completed test results, some as recent as the past month. House broke off before Wilson could read anything of import in muted shards of azure, lifting his marker hand to rub his thumb over his forehead. He seemed to be done writing – to have been finished for a while now, actually – so Wilson padded up to him and gently removed the marker from his upheld hand. House let his arm drop and stumbled in place to reset his bad leg, his head drooping down between his shoulders as he leaned both palms on the countertop.

"Is this everything?" Wilson asked softly.

House nodded, flickering an unseeing glance across the mirror as if to verify that. Then he grimaced back down at the sink. "I didn't want you to know how bad it was."

"I know that, House," Wilson replied. And he did, which was why he couldn't find it in himself to be mad, even in private. House hadn't wanted Wilson to worry; he had wanted Wilson happy for once. And how could Wilson possibly fault that? "Believe me, I know." He capped the marker and set it down on the countertop, his other hand gliding up over House's shoulder to squeeze gently. At least the marker was an erasable one, and House had used the mirror; he could totally picture House using a permanent Sharpie on the hotel room wall if nothing else were available. It was like dealing with John Nash sometimes; he just _had_ to write it down somewhere, to get it out of his head and into the open.

"I sent it to Foreman already." House indicated his open cell phone sitting on a folded hand towel off to one side, the camera setting still on. Then he swiveled in Wilson's direction again, and again came short of actually looking at him, like his whole body got caught in a stutter. "I know he was here earlier. I remember scratching him." It seemed like a dare to try hiding that Wilson had indeed called for help, but not a hostile one. House looked…beaten. Old. Like he didn't care anymore who knew about it because it was just too big for him now. A bare second of eye contact confirmed some part of that.

Wilson nodded, knowing that House could see the movement in his periphery, and squeezed House's shoulder again. He could feel a subtle shiver course through House's frame. The man looked so small, standing there in a chintzy, blazing bathroom. This shouldn't be happening here, in this impersonal rented space; they should be at home for this. "We'll fix it."

House made a half-hearted attempt at indignation, but it died unformed. He deflated again, shook his head like an old pastured race horse dreaming of Elmer's, and then pushed himself up onto his good leg before deigning to rasp, "Yeah. Sure."

Wilson caught at his arm before he could sidle past and pulled him back, forcing House to face him. Wilson's manhandling caused his bad leg to buckle, and House hissed out a curse, his hands seizing Wilson's biceps with a strained grunt to keep himself on his feet. "House, you can't give up." Wilson craned his neck in a vain effort to get House to look at him, then fervently insisted, "We can fight this."

"Hey, I recognize that voice," House quipped, his tone deceptively mild and way too casual to be anything even close to normal. The fact that he blatantly refused to make eye contact further compounded the sense of wrongness here. "I bet you say that to all the pretty terminal cases."

Wilson flinched, then scoffed, "You're not terminal."

It had a queasy ring to it, though, which House echoed when he stated, blasé as two day old saltines, "I may as well be."

Wilson wrestled his voice down and replied, "Look, I know you're scared – "

"I'm not sca – "

"You are! Do you think I can't tell? House, I know you. This is your mind we're talking about, and it terrifies the shit out of you to think it might be broken."

House seethed for a moment, all desperate bluster, a façade held together with spit and bailing wire to spare his fragile ego via self pity.

Fine. New approach. "You can't give up," Wilson insisted. He was playing dirty and he knew it, but he also knew that it would work better than any argument he could make on House's own behalf. "If you give up, _I _give up, and I know damn well you don't want that."

"Oh, that's rich," House sniped, his voice wavering, defenses crumbling all around them. "You're gonna blackmail me into sticking around, miserable – "

Shit, it was that bad – when the hell had it gotten that bad? "If that's what it takes, then yes. I'll walk around with a syringe of morphine in my pocket if I have to – I am _not_ going to let this get you, House. I won't let you just sit there and take it."

"I'm not taking anything!" House bellowed, but the words caught in his throat on every syllable. "I can't make it stop, Wilson – I want it to stop!"

Wilson grabbed House's face between his hands, ignoring the cringe and House shoving at his chest to get him off. "I will make it stop! Are you listening to me? _I'm_ not going to leave, House." They jostled each other, each searching for footing, socked feet scuffling on the floor. "I won't let you lock yourself in a room this time and pretend nothing happened. I _want_ to see the bruises!"

Blue eyes pierced Wilson's in shock. Now that House would finally consent to look at him, Wilson could see how bloodshot they were, and how vividly they stood out from the pale planes of House's cheeks. House evidently hadn't washed his face yet; dried saline still dusted his skin and stubble from the night before. Wilson shifted his grip and the blue winked out as House flinched under the thumbs that Wilson ran down his cheeks. They both staggered under the force with which House recoiled, but Wilson merely backed House into the wall and trapped him there with his body. As if he couldn't stand to see the way Wilson was looking at him, House clamped his eyes shut.

"I'll make it okay. House, I swear to god, I'll find a way to make it okay."

"I don't need you to fucking fix me!" House clenched his jaw and nearly choked when he tried to swallow, his entire affect screaming at Wilson to get away from him, to let him drown in peace.

"Look at me!" Wilson shifted to better capture House's face, his fingers digging into stubble and hooking around House's ears. "It'll be okay. House, it'll be okay." Platitudes, no – House wouldn't buy those, he didn't have any use for those. Instead, Wilson tried, "I've been an idiot for not noticing sooner, a blind fucking idiot, but I promise I won't go away this time. House, I _promise_."

House's fingers closed over Wilson's shirt as his breath turned ragged. He tried to turn his face away but Wilson wouldn't let him. "…nglk…oh, god."

Wilson started to shake his head. "What? What's going on? House! House, open your eyes."

"Wilson, I don't wanna do this."

It took Wilson a moment to realize that all House meant was _cry_. He didn't want to cry in front of Wilson. "It's okay," Wilson assured him, stroking his thumbs down through salt-dusted patches of stubble. It was one thing for House to shed tears from pain, or to sob like a child while half out of his mind, but this was _House_ standing here now – just plain old ordinary House – the mortal, frightened, bewildered, grown man. "Just do it; it's okay."

"It's _not_ okay!"

"Yeah, that's probably true." Wilson folded him close, all but pinning him against the wall when House's leg gave out, threatening to drag them both to the floor. He found it telling that while House consented to hang onto him, he only did so via clothes. No arms wrapped over Wilson's body; House didn't seek an actual embrace, merely a buttress for his shaking form, probably so that he could try to hide a breakdown behind the physical effort inherent in remaining upright. "But it _will_ be."

"_Fuck_."

"I know you hate this," Wilson soothed. "Just let go."

House trembled harder and shook his head more violently, a bleak whimper leaking from his firmly clamped lips. "I can't…fucking do this…"

"You can." Wilson tightened his hold when House started to squirm away again, and then implored, "Let me help you. Just let me help you."

An anguished dribble of sound shredded the miniscule space between them. "No," House insisted, maybe out of habit but more likely out of fear. "Nothing to…no."

"_Trust_ me," Wilson begged.

"God _damn _it." It sounded more like a whimper than a curse. House flung his head to one side in a lame attempt to get Wilson to let go of him, but Wilson hung on, determined. "I don't want you here for this – why can't you just leave?"

"You know why." Wilson let go of House's neck in favor of pulling him in by his shoulder, persistent. House struggled and Wilson staggered with him to maintain the awkward embrace. "House, you're allowed to cry."

"I…Wilson…_dammit_." House's fingers closed over Wilson's shirt as his breath turned ragged. He bit his lip over a furious, pained sound and knocked himself back into the wall in an effort to get away from Wilson, hollow thumps reverberating through thin hotel plasterboard.

"Okay," Wilson soothed, still cradling House's face with one hand to keep him there, pinned against the wall without his cane, unable to properly storm out for reasons other than physical handicap. "House, listen to me. I know I've been a real jerk lately, but I never meant to be so cruel. Foreman's right, _you're _right – in so many ways, I'm worse than you could ever hope to be. All you've done since the shooting is try to make _me_ better, and I hurt you for it."

House scrabbled at Wilson's hands to try to get them off of him. When that didn't work, he tried to shunt himself off to one side and slip free. The towel bar thwarted him and House let out a reedy, furious sort of moan at finding himself trapped here, caught in a display of blatant emotion. With no other recourse, House threw his head back in defiance of his own need for comfort, slamming it into the wall hard enough that Wilson winced and House appeared momentarily dazed.

"I don't want to hurt you," Wilson insisted, following House's ineffective attempts to convince himself that he wanted to twist away. He grabbed onto the back of House's neck to stop him from trying to smash his head back again. "I'm tired of hurting you – _please_, for god's sake. House…" Wilson bit his lip over an intractable sniffle, then choked, "Let me have one more chance. Just one. I won't need another."

House sagged back, wilting against the wall as if he wanted nothing better than to sink into the discolored grout and die of mortification. "Please, stop," House begged, his voice weak and shattered. "Wilson, I can't do this again. Not again, _please_, not again."

Wilson couldn't even manage to look at House after he said that. House wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but he usually apologized in his own way; he definitely never repeated an offense. But Wilson... How many second chances had House already given him – how many times had he forgiven in perfect silence, without asking for an apology, without Wilson even being aware that House may have wanted one. How many wrongs had slipped through the cracks of their friendship just because House needed Wilson to stay under any circumstances he could get? Because he needed Wilson to be there more than he needed to feel that he was worth the attention? Worse, how many times had forgiveness never been necessary because House didn't really think Wilson had done anything undeserved to him in the first place? House was probably keeping a tally somewhere, but if he was, Wilson would never know; House would never tell him, no matter how well they could repair their friendship. It was just something that House would never put him through, knowing how often Wilson had hurt him, or disregarded him, or just failed to notice him altogether. And House couldn't do it anymore, couldn't deal with what it would do to him if he trusted one more time and got burned for it. This was it; this was the breaking point between them, and House wasn't the one trying to push them past it this time.

Desperate, Wilson dragged him close enough that their foreheads touched, and the moment froze around them. House wasn't trembling, not really, but there was nonetheless a nameless brand of tension; it moved under Wilson's hands, betrayed by the imperfect stillness with which House held himself. Wilson couldn't see his eyes because House kept them hooded, but he caught the movement of House lashes blinking rapidly. Shallow, open-mouthed breaths bathed Wilson's face in the sour scent of morning, and House's calloused palms left dry patches of welcomed warmth on the backs of Wilson's hands where his blunt fingernails dug into the meaty parts of Wilson's palms.

When Wilson finally responded, his voice shivered like the wing of a dragonfly caught in a single breath of air, so thin and fragile that anything stronger would rip it apart. "I have no right asking, House. Not after…lately." He sucked in a shuddering breath, only half what his lungs should have been able to hold. "Please don't give up on me." Wilson fingered the fresh salty smears on House's cheek. "Please." Then once more, barely a choked whisper. "_Please_."

House shook his head within the confines of Wilson's hands, his lip caught fast between sharp teeth, but he was becoming ever heavier in Wilson's grasp, staggering against him in an effort to hold his own weight, or prop himself better against the wall that Wilson had pressed him to. Wilson tightened his grip around the back of House's neck and snaked his other hand around House's waist to crush them together and force House to let Wilson support a larger portion of his weight, before they could both become better acquainted with the floor.

Finally, the breath whooshed from House's lungs on the tail end of a broken sound, just to be sucked in and held a second later. He clutched at Wilson's belt with his free hand and sagged against him, lowering his head into Wilson's hand. "I never…give up on you. Wilson, I can't, I just…can't." As if it were a simple matter, so simple it defied explanation altogether, though from the way he said it, it sounded like he sometimes wished that he _could_ just bring himself to walk away. _You can't choose your friends._

Wilson stared at House's averted face, his own vision streaked. House never gave up on him, wasn't capable of giving up on him, and Wilson couldn't say the same back. He shut his eyes because he couldn't bear to risk catching a glimpse of the sad, broken disappointment that had to be lurking in House's craggy features. "I'm so sorry." Wilson could barely make himself understood past the tattered breaths and the snot that he kept trying to suck back up through clogged nostrils, his cheek pressed up against House's, sandwiching House's head between Wilson's clean-shaven jaw and his equally smooth palm. "God, I'm so sorry."

House shook his head once more for form's sake and then grabbed onto him fiercely enough to temporarily steal Wilson's breath away. They lurched back toward the counter, and the next thing Wilson knew, the edge of the linoleum was digging painfully into his lower back, and House's mouth was on his, sharp and rough, as if he needed to devour Wilson alive just as much as he needed to breathe. It wasn't the least bit sweet or romantic, but rather desperate, edging on frenzied. This wasn't a rational move for House, not a deliberate deflection; it almost scared Wilson, the intensity with which House more or less attacked him.

"House – "

"Don't, don't, _don't_," House pleaded into Wilson's mouth, his voice soft and fractured, only audible because of how close they stood, and the good acoustics in the bathroom. He had Wilson's hands pinned to the counter at his sides, and though Wilson tried to free himself, he didn't try nearly as hard as he could have. House drew in a slow breath that fluttered on its way into his chest, his face sliding off so that he could rub his stubbled cheek along Wilson's jaw line, the prickling more abrasive than normal owing to Wilson's hyper-alert, adrenaline-saturated nervous system. House hiccuped and then implored, "Don't be you this time."

See, situations like this were why Wilson so often found himself on the wrong end of his own penis. He understood this; he always had. It wouldn't solve anything, and he knew it, which was why he had tried so hard not to let this relationship devolve into that overtly physical and yet lacking place he always went with women. But House wanted to be close, to touch him, to have some sort of physical contact, and Wilson had already established that House couldn't do it the healthy way yet. The whole point of comforting someone was to make them feel comfortable, right? Cuddling was too awkward and intimate for House, accepting emotional absolution in physical form made him flinch, ratcheting up the anxiety level for him, but sex didn't. It was a dysfunctional response to an already fucked up situation, but Wilson had never been able to turn someone down when they got like this with him. And he couldn't help but be reminded of when House had tackled him on the couch just because he needed Wilson to touch him, but had to find an excuse to hold his hand. Less than five minutes after that, Wilson had chased him out the door, and then said something stupid, and House had shut down. Wilson didn't want that again; House had been through enough in the past twenty four hours already. They both had.

"Okay," Wilson breathed, aware of House shivering against him, of the taste of salt on his lips in the wake of the brutal kiss. This was a bad idea, a horribly bad idea, but such was coined the term 'comfort sex.' It was never a good idea, even with one's partner.

House seemed relieved to receive the green light, but he still didn't release Wilson's hands, and he didn't do anything about Wilson's concession. House had set his legs wide, for him anyway, and to counteract the precarious balance that this put him in, what with how useless his right leg would be propped at that angle, he had leaned a good portion of his weight against Wilson. It left Wilson unable to move much without risking injury to House, a fact punctuated by the manner in which House shifted to prop his bad leg against Wilson's thighs, displaying the sort of vulnerability in his footing that House normally sought to conceal at all costs; he didn't like to be seen as a cripple, whether he jokingly called himself one or not.

Neither of them moved for a minute. Wilson couldn't help thinking that House was basking in the immobile, full-frontal contact, which seemed ridiculous on the surface since House had basically pinned Wilson in place to get it. Coerced affection. Maybe this was payback for Wilson trapping him against the wall a minute ago, for not letting him retreat. Or maybe, if the revelation of weakness came on House's terms, with Wilson not in a position to reciprocate with annoying hugs and such, then it was okay for House to let it show. Wilson merely stood there, confused and a little scared. He didn't think House would actually get violent with him, but right now, it seemed like he might. Wilson didn't like being held down the way House did - he didn't feel safe like that - but at the same time, having Wilson immobilized seemed to comfort House somehow, as if it rendered Wilson safe to be around while House was so obviously vulnerable.

House gradually lowered his head, angling his face in toward Wilson's neck, his respirations smoothing out to a snail's pace. Wilson licked his lips and inched one of his legs into a better position to support himself. "House?"

At the sound of Wilson's voice, House twitched as if he had forgotten that he was leaning on an actual person. He withdrew a little, then ducked back down to gently rub his forehead over the tip of Wilson's shoulder, the way he often did to the head of his cane when he fell deep into troubled thought.

Wilson tried calling House's name again, soft and tremulous, to no avail. He would have liked nothing better than to stay here like this for however long House needed to, but Wilson could already feel the cold tingles prickling his fingers, the circulation cut off by the amount of weight that House had rested across the backs of Wilson's hands. The room had become a snapshot, neither of them moving; all Wilson could hear were their harsh repirations, and an occasional whisper of clothes shifting against skin. Wilson licked his lips, too unsettled to do much else. "House…I can't feel my fingers."

House sighed, perhaps disappointed, and slipped his hands off to rest next to Wilson's instead.

"Thanks." Wilson flexed his fingers, then rested his chin on House's shoulder. Even though they were touching from sternum to knees, pressure all along Wilson's front, there was nothing even remotely erotic about it. And that confused him. "Uh…House?"

House gave a nonspecific grunt, as if he bordered on sleep, his forehead still resting on the tip of Wilson's shoulder. Then he shifted, lifting more properly onto his good leg to remedy that height disparity that existed between them. House trailed his lips along Wilson's shoulder until he passed the shirt collar and found skin, and then he stopped abruptly, his mouth hovering above Wilson's flesh, exhaling hot and moist bursts into the crook of his neck. Feeling that, the rapidity of House's breathing, and the force with which he blew out each lungful of air, was what finally tipped Wilson off that House wasn't nearly as calm as he seemed on the surface. This was just a lull in the storm.

Wilson swallowed his nerves; he couldn't remember House being like this many times in the past, and of that handful, they all preceded Amber. Plus, Wilson had never been the object that House obsessed over to quench whatever want burned underneath this strange sort of predatory behavior. It had also never seemed a sexual thing before. House would just stalk off somewhere, or prowl hallways at the hospital after hours, glare out from dark corners, maybe decimate a video game or throw things from the roof of the hospital. People knew to stay away from him when he got like that – even Wilson. Let him annoy half the floor by lobbing his fuzzy ball at the walls and ceiling, or stand back and let him pace like a fiend from the elevator alcove to the vending machines and back; just don't try to make him stop.

Ironically, though these moods were often precipitated by an increase in leg pain, it had never occurred to Wilson that the trigger might be something else, and the pain just a side effect. It _should_ have occurred to him, though: conversion disorder. Even House had to concede that he had one, loathsome as that thought was. Fear, uncertainty, disappointment…anger at his own contemptible weakness – what must House feel when he gets like this? Wilson started to think that he may have been wise to take the hint earlier when House had said he didn't want Wilson here for this. Because Wilson hadn't the slightest idea what to do now that he was caught in it.

House pressed harder up against him, squeezing some of the oxygen from Wilson's lungs, then started nosing around Wilson's neck. For lack of anything better to do with his hands, Wilson ran them up House's arms, then down and around his waist, his touch light and tentative, on alert for any sign that his advance was unwelcome. It was strange and terrifying to contemplate having sex when he felt like a deer staring down the barrel of a gun, all adrenaline and shivering muscles, poised to flee the instant his ears tagged the muted click of the hammer drawing back.

To Wilson's surprise, House reciprocated with nothing more than an actual embrace. Wilson had known that House's attempts at physical affection were at least partially contrived, but he hadn't realized just how forced they were until now. There was such an abundance of innocence in the feel of House's arms that Wilson actually blinked at the opposite wall, his mouth hanging open for a moment. House stiffened when Wilson didn't react right away, but before he could pull away, Wilson wrapped his arms more firmly around House's midsection. A tense second dragged by, and then House melted against him, the gesture wholly platonic. House nuzzled into Wilson's neck and then stayed there, his arms cinched around Wilson's ribcage, hands balled into fists between Wilson's shoulder blades as if he couldn't quite bring himself to hold on, merely mimic a pale shadow of it. Wilson had been wrong before about the physical affection, the casual comforting touch; House could show it and wanted to receive it without the games and the diversions, it was just…he seemed reluctant to admit that. Because asking for something like this left him open to rejection, and House couldn't abide being rejected over wanting such a simple thing, something anyone else could get with no trouble at all.

Emboldened by this odd brand of self-surrender, Wilson adjusted his stance to better return the gesture, his hands splayed over House's shirt, the soft cotton warmed by his body heat, thumbs tracing circles around the knobby juts of vertebrae running in a straight line down House's back. Several minutes passed, and then House drew in a deep breath, embarrassment written in the way he squirmed a little and sucked the residual snot from their earlier struggles back into his nose. At some point, Wilson had started petting him, light strokes down House's spine and then up to tousle his hair, as if House were a lap cat. Of all the things that could calm the storm when House reached critical mass over some tiny explosion in his life, Wilson honestly hadn't ever considered that _this_ was all he needed. Stupid him. Although, perhaps it was stupid House too, since up until now, he had not allowed Wilson, or anyone else, to diffuse him like this.

House pulled back a little too abruptly but Wilson let him go without offering any sign that he noticed. "Um." House cleared his throat, gravel in a rock tumbler, his eyes darting off to a corner of the floor.

"We should try to get to the hospital early," Wilson said, pleased with himself for sounding so completely unfazed. "We can get most of the testing done before ten and your team won't even consider you late."

House threw him a shaky smile, obviously grateful that Wilson was letting this moment pass without comment. Then he made a face at nothing in particular, scrunching his nose up to one side, and limped out of the bathroom without a word. Wilson watched him go, one hand braced on the wall in absence of his cane, and then gave an inaudible sigh. His hand inched around to tug at the cramped muscles of his neck, and then he opted to take his morning shower. It would give House time and space enough to wrest his tough-ass manhood back into place, and Wilson would have a chance to blank himself out under the hot spray. Because really, after all the time he had spent wishing that House could be _that_ sort of person, just for ten minutes, Wilson had no idea what to do with it now that he'd seen it. That had easily been the most intimate moment they had ever shared. It was just…the implications of that were more frightening to Wilson than they had any right to be, and he didn't know why.

Wilson made short work of showering, but since he and House were 'giving each other space,' he hadn't gone into the main room to grab his toiletries bag before stripping and hopping in the tub. After he climbed out, Wilson scrubbed the towel through his hair just enough to stop the dripping, then wrapped it around his hips without bothering to blot the beads of water from the rest of his body. Thus, when he stepped out of the bathroom, he interrupted House discovering his pack of smokes from last night in Wilson's jacket pocket. They both froze, as if both of them had been caught doing something illicit by the other, and then Wilson jittered his limbs back into the bathroom and quietly shut the door. He listened while House gimped his way through the hotel room, his steps as light and cautious as he could make them with a lame leg.

Only after the hall door snicked shut did Wilson emerge to locate his clothes and toiletries. One part of him recognized that the mere sight of the cigarettes had shaken him, and he reflected wryly that he probably wouldn't be able to look at one again without remembering the previous night. It would certainly be awhile before he would be able to bring himself to comment on House's newest habit. Or perhaps his oldest habit, ten year nicotine sabbatical aside. House shouldn't smoke, considering his history with blood clots, and Wilson didn't want him to anyway. But House was right; it was better than popping pills all those times when he didn't actually need them for the pain.

By the time House came back toting coffee in one of those folding carriers, Wilson was dressed and milling around the hotel room, straightening up. House didn't snark at him for doing the maids' jobs this time; he merely handed off one of the coffees, glanced uneasily around the room, and then decided in a visibly sluggish manner to take his own turn in the bathroom. Wilson frowned at how subdued House had become over the past hour; he hadn't uttered an actual word since begging Wilson not be himself in the bathroom. It was disconcerting, the way House seemed to be tiptoeing around Wilson, hugging the wall if he had to pass too close, as if he expected bad things to happen in the wake of a freaking hug. Just because he could, Wilson proved him wrong; nothing at all happened in the wake of the hug, neither good nor bad. The rest of their morning routine passed without incident, and if Wilson said so himself, he did a pretty good job of acting like House's behavior hadn't waxed abnormal.

While House sat on the edge of the un-slept-in bed occupying himself with cartoons, the only House-friendly morning programming available on regular cable, Wilson moved off for one last preen in front of the bathroom mirror. He took the opportunity to towel off the lingering evidence of House's makeshift whiteboard session, content in knowing that Foreman already had all of the information at his disposal. When Wilson came back out, still finger-combing his hair into place, he was assaulted by the sight of House turning away from the wall mirror as if he thought he could hide the fact that he always stood around for an extra minute fluffing his own hair in a vain effort to hide the growing thin patch at the crown of his head. Wilson smirked, mostly because he was giddy at the routine domesticity inherent in that sight - in the fact that he, and only he, saw that almost every day. Plus, any excuse to laugh quelled the bubbling hysteria in his gut; House was sick, seriously ill, and Wilson didn't like how it felt to know that.

House squinted at him as if the past twelve hours had never occurred, then demanded, voice low in an effort to sound menacing, "What?" Just daring Wilson to comment on his hair loss while Wilson himself stood there all prim and perfect with his GQ-worthy coif.

Wilson ignored the question and ducked back into the bathroom to grab his tube of hair gel.

When Wilson strode back out, a dollop of gel glistening on his fingers, House furrowed his brow. "You're not touching me with that."

"Trust me," Wilson assured him. "I know what I'm doing."

House tried to knock his hand away but Wilson could worm his way into House's personal space better than anyone. "Hey, hey – I don't want your girly-ass shiny shit in my hair!"

Drolly, Wilson informed him, "There is no glitter in here, and it doesn't smell like cheap perfume. No one will ever know. Hold still."

House tried one last time to smack Wilson's hand away from his head, which cost him his balance. He plonked heavily down on the knee-high surface of the bureau, then groaned in annoyance and crossed his arms over his chest like a petulant child while Wilson had his way with his hair.

Wilson finished and held his gel-slickened hands out to his sides, glancing into the mirror on the wall behind House to admire his handy work. Just to be a dick, he pronounced it, "Fabulous."

House shot a death glare up at him, but when he twisted to look for himself, Wilson could tell that he grudgingly admired Wilson's skill. Of course, what he actually said was, "You really do take some sort of perverse pleasure in torturing me."

"I know you like it," Wilson deadpanned.

"So I wasn't gay enough already? You had to style my hair to make it more obvious?"

On his way to the bathroom to wash his hands off, Wilson called, "Hey, if we're talking percentages of serious romantic involvements, you're already _way_ more gay than I am. I mean, you're like an even fifty percent gay. I'm only…what, twenty percent? If that?"

"Your obscenely extensive collection of hair care products begs to differ."

Wilson finished rinsing his hands and shut off the taps before snagging an unused hand towel. Since he knew House, he warned, "Don't play with it for a few minutes. It needs to set."

House groused out a few vulgar retorts, but apparently let his hair alone until Wilson came back out, switching the light off in his wake. At House's blatantly pissed expression, Wilson stuck his hands on his hips and regarded him critically. House scowled and demanded, "Seriously?"

"No one can tell," Wilson insisted, exasperated. "And even if they could, why the hell would you care? You don't give a shit about how you look." Of course, Wilson knew that was a bald-faced lie; in his own way, House spent as much time tailoring his appearance to his personal specifications as Wilson did. House simply aimed for a different impression.

House glared, plainly unamused, but he still didn't touch his hair. Approval, then.

Wilson smirked and pointed a finger at him in triumph. "I've got your number, House."

"Only because it's programmed into your phone," House snapped back.

Wilson gave him a slightly baffled look. "That was lame."

"Oh, cripple joke. Like I haven't heard that one before."

It had been unintentional, but Wilson didn't feel like admitting that, so he ignored it altogether. "If it matters, I do have your number memorized. All of them, actually. Because you're just _that_ important to me."

House made a face like he just threw up a little in his mouth due to saccharine overload.

Wilson grinned. "Wanna wear my letter jacket?"

House groaned and rolled his eyes.

"How about my class ring? I can find a nice pretty silver chain for it…compliment your eyes…"

"Shut up, you damn fairy."

Wilson chuckled inwardly, but on the outside, his face fell. House had already stood and snagged his backpack from the table by the window, and when he turned, Wilson placed his hand against House's sternum for no good reason, stilling him. With his eyes on the patterns of House's t-shirt, designs swirling under his fingers, Wilson asked, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," House told him with a hint of annoyance. "It's nothing." He shrugged because even House couldn't play last night and this morning off as meaningless. "Medical…thing. It'll be fine."

"Yeah." Wilson nodded, unconvinced.

House's gaze wandered for a moment, and then he murmured, dead serious, "M'not giving up. 'kay?"

Wilson nodded. "Okay. Good." He smoothed the cotton under his fingers with a sigh.

House swallowed, uneasy in the face of Wilson's odd behavior. "Are _you_ okay? You seem sort of spooked."

"You'll have that," Wilson replied around a queasy chuckle.

House frowned and lowered his eyes to Wilson's hand where it now lingered on his abdomen. "You shouldn't worry about me so much." He stepped back from Wilson's hand and gestured uneasily. "You have your own problems. I can handle it if it's – "

"No," Wilson snapped, rushing to cut off the very thought. "No. You asked for my help – you never actually ask. I'm doing it, and that's final." Wilson sliced a hand through the air between them to illustrate that. "Don't act like you have no right to ask."

House eyed him for a moment, then sucked on his bottom lip, his expression wary. "Okay."

"Okay." Wilson expelled a pent-up breath, then forced a smile. "Come on. I'll buy you a donut."

--TBC


	32. Chapter 32

**  
A/N: **OMG, I am soooo sorry this took so long. I just realized it's been like two months since I updated this. That's just...shameful. *begs forgiveness with big pleading anime eyes*

* * *

"House?"

"Hm."

Wilson glanced over at the hunched figure in the passenger seat, taking in the donut House held in one hand with a single crescent-shaped chunk missing from where he had bit it. Then he focused back on the road. "Talk to me."

From the corner of his eye, Wilson saw House give a sluggish twitch, as if wrenching himself back into the moment. House stretched in the seat, inhaling slow and long, and then blinked over at Wilson. Glazed donut crumbs sprinkled all over the leg of his jeans as he moved. "About what?"

Wilson let his gaze flicker rapidly between House and the road, and then for lack of balls, Wilson tilted his head at the ignored donut. "Not hungry?"

House frowned down at the mess of sugary frosting that had partially melted all over the pads of his fingers where he held it. Reluctantly, he admitted, "It tastes funny."

"Here. Gimme." Wilson held it his hand for the donut, which House forked over without argument. House willingly parting with food…not good, in Wilson's book. He accepted the donut, tried not to be obvious about noticing House stop himself from licking the remains of sticky glaze from his fingers, and took a bite. It tasted fine. House was watching him, though, and Wilson didn't have the heart to heap more worries on him right now. "Stale."

"Yeah," House agreed. From his tone, he knew exactly what Wilson was doing, but for once, it didn't appear to annoy him. He just wasn't all there right now, and it showed. Wilson couldn't help thinking that House was giving up in increments, one surrender of will at a time. "That must be it."

"Must be." Wilson handed the twice-bitten donut back and House balled it up in a napkin. "Hey!" Wilson pointed ineffectually as House stuffed the wad into the door pocket. "You can't leave that there! House."

"Relax, Martha Stewart. I'll throw it out later."

"No, you won't," Wilson scoffed, braking at a stoplight. "It'll grow mold, start to smell, and then _I'll_ throw it out."

"Donuts don't grow mold, moron," House countered. "Too many preservatives. It'll go rock-hard stale, and that's it."

Wilson pursed his lips in the direction of the windshield, then shook his head. "I don't want to know if you know that from experience."

House smirked, tossed Wilson a fond sidelong look, then faced forward again. The mirth melted, bled off like fresh paint in a rainstorm, and House hid his new expression against the window.

Wilson noticed the light change out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't tap the gas yet.

"Green, Wilson."

"I know."

Clicks and fidgets sounded throughout the car as House rustled about to relieve the tension at dealing with an out-of-sorts Wilson. "It's red again."

Wilson slumped back in his seat and let his fingers slip from the wheel to lay limp in his lap. _You know he's lying, right? He wants you to see it. _Wilson scrunched his eyes closed to rid himself of the remembered dream and House's blacked out eyes, then asked, "Did you lie to me?"

House started and shot Wilson a wary look, still half turned away. "No."

"You don't even know which statement I'm referring to," Wilson replied. He couldn't look at House right now. He suspected a little bit too much all of a sudden. All morning, really. And that nagging little thing in the back of his head clamored for attention. He couldn't seem to pound it back into submission, which made him wonder how long it had actually been there. "You're just gonna claim you've _never _lied to me?"

"Wilson…" House's eyes stuttered away out the side window, his Adam's apple bobbling as he swallowed thickly. "Can we just go to the hospital?"

Yes, Wilson thought; they were definitely talking around the same issue. Two people couldn't possible know each other so well for so long and not learn to follow each other's thoughts. He overly enunciated, "Did you lie?"

"This is not the time for this."

Wilson's gaze shot over to pin House against the door, and House flinched accordingly. "The time for what?"

House's head was shaking before he seemed to realize what he was doing, and then he kept denying pretty much anything that Wilson might say next. "Please don't do this now."

"You don't even know what I might say, House."

"_Stop_ talking."

"Why?" Wilson demanded, though his voice sounded soft around the edges, hesitant to press forward. "What are you afraid I might say?"

"I don't know." The words tumbled out too fast. "Wilson, drive. Just…not now, okay? You're blocking traffic. I'll talk later, just not now."

"No, you won't. You'd put it off until one of us is dead."

"I have that right."

Wilson considered him for a moment, acknowledged that he wanted nothing better than to drop everything forever too, and then swerved the car off to the side of the road. He slammed it into park in front of an old bookstore that had gone out of business, and then twisted in his seat to face House. "I can't drop it."

"Why the fuck not?"

"This isn't going away, House. If it were, then maybe it wouldn't matter, but it's – "

"I wouldn't do this to you, you know. I'd let it drop."

Before Wilson could stop himself, he rose to the bait and snapped, "Like hell!"

"We have other things to worry about right now," House said, all snarled edges and anger that he probably didn't know what to do with.

"Yeah," Wilson replied. "That's sort of my point."

House started to retort but cut himself off with an exasperated, "Pha."

Wilson took House's silence as encouragement to do his damnedest, to get the conversation over with. "House, there are drug dealers after us. You're _sick_, you could be having seizures – "

"Which will go away once we find the cause and treat it."

"Maybe," Wilson hedged. "But do you really think that what they've dredged up is going to go away too?"

"It should." House glared out the window with a closed-mouthed sneer. Or perhaps it was grimace; Wilson couldn't tell for sure.

At first, Wilson assumed that _It should_ constituted House's medical opinion on the matter; it was a stupid assertion to make. Wilson had already opened his mouth to say so when House finished his thought.

"I already dealt with it. I shouldn't have to deal with it again."

The implied assertion that it wasn't _fair_ to make him deal with it again hung unspoken in the air between them. Even after fifty years of the world teaching House otherwise, he still clung to the belief that life _should _be fair. Karma _should _even out. People _should _get what they deserve. A tiny pain bloomed in Wilson's solar plexus because he knew what sort of person that belief had turned House into. The one who thought he must not deserve better, as if this _was_ his due, as if he had actually done something to earn it.

It wasn't fair. But there wasn't a damn thing either of them could do about that now. Suddenly, Wilson choked out, "You didn't even know me last night."

In the window's reflection, Wilson caught a flash of House's wince.

"I know this is bad timing, House, I know it's not fair, but we have to deal with it. It's in the way right now." Wilson licked his lips and shifted in his seat, raising one hand as if he could soothe House's anxiety by petting the air over the center console. "You've said things. A lot of things now, just…pieces, and – "

"Wilson – "

"People don't have flashbacks like that over ice cubes and corporal punishment." He had to spit it out quickly, or it might not come out at all. "You said yourself once that the punishments weren't that bad. I thought you were downplaying the abuse because you were ashamed, or you thought you deserved it because you misbehaved a lot, but now I don't think that's it at all. You said he crossed the line once. Only once. When you were twelve." Wilson sucked in a shuddering breath. He felt cold. "That's what you lied about. On the couch, when I asked if the…if it was ever…if it was sexual. You lied."

House was shaking his head again, hands clenched around his cane, eyes hooded so that Wilson couldn't read them. "I didn't lie. It wasn't."

Wilson nodded, spared a moment for reconsideration, and then ventured, "Except for that one time?"

"Wilson, _stop_."

Maybe it was the bare hiss of House's voice, or the way they were both trembling, or the fact that Wilson didn't actually want to know after all. Wilson nodded, his eyes blinking of their own accord, and fumbled his way straight in his seat. He reached for the gear shift and hit the wipers instead, then scrambled to set things to right. Once the wipers settled, Wilson swallowed hard and then just sat there. The silence swarmed inside the confines of the car, hot and oppressive, and then House broke it.

"I'm think I'm gonna throw up."

"Yeah, okay. Sounds good." Wilson kept his gaze trained resolutely forward, knuckles white on the steering wheel, as House stumbled his way out of the car and wandered down the sidewalk on unsteady legs.

Down near a mailbox, House stopped and clawed his cell phone from his jeans pocket. He kept stabbing at the buttons as if his fingers were too chubby to press the numbers properly, and Wilson finally unbuckled and climbed out of the car. House's back was to him, and the sun cast the shadows behind them, so he didn't notice Wilson approaching as he finally dialed correctly and stuck the phone to his ear. A second later, House blurted out, "You said I could call you."

Wilson paused several feet away and wondered if he should feel guilty about eavesdropping. Probably, but the surrealism in his mind eclipsed it. House must have Olivia on the phone.

"I don't know," House said. He leaned against the mailbox and started patting down his pockets with his cane hand, but he didn't have his pills. Wilson had offered the bottle to him before they left the hotel, but House had wordlessly reenacted the Wilson-safety. The Vicodin were in Wilson's pocket. "Yeah." House left off pawing at himself with an upset sound, and told the phone, "I'm not getting back in the car."

Wilson lowered his gaze and then fished for the bottle in his own pocket. At the rattle of pills, House spun around, eyes just short of wild, and had to catch himself on the mailbox when he overbalanced. A tiny metallic jumble of Olivia's voice issued forth from the phone pinched between House's palm and his ear, but House lowered it. At the absence of a response, Olivia kept right on speaking to his leg, where the mouthpiece dangled. Wilson heard his own name coming from it, synthesized faraway words, and realized that Olivia was telling House to put him on the phone. But they were too busy staring at each other.

Without a word, Wilson concentrated on shaking out a pill, and then he extended it like an olive branch. House was right; he was a shameless enabler, but he honestly didn't know what else to offer. He thanked the powers that be that House took it, and then he cursed himself for giving it in the first place.

Instead of watching House knock it back, Wilson took the phone from his lax fingers and turned away. "Olivia?"

"_James. What happened?_"

"We had a bad night," Wilson replied, his voice hollow. He could hear House stumping off in a random direction without actually going anywhere. "And morning."

"_Did you fight?_"

"Sort of." Wilson glanced over his shoulder to make sure House was still there, then accused, "You told me to push him." There was no force to it, though, like an inept actor spitting out lines he couldn't connect with.

The line crackled for a moment, and then Olivia asked, "_Do I need to come get him? Or you?_"

"Why would you?"

"_Because you're both my patients. It's what I do._"

"House isn't your patient."

"_Yes, he is, James. He's been seeing me as long as you have, whether he realizes it or not._"

Wilson blinked at a blackened gum spot on the pavement.

"_Do I need to come get one of you?_"

"I think that might be a good idea."

"_Tell me where._"

Wilson gave her the address of the shuttered old bookstore and then hung up before she could say anything else. He didn't realize that House had come back to stand near him until he said, "M'sorry."

Wilson jumped and then snapped in disbelief, "What?" His voice softened of its own accord when he stepped back and turned to face him. "No. I should learn to shut up."

House made a frustrated face off to one side and Wilson caught his eyes in the reflection in the dark bookstore window. Neither looked away for once, not at first. A strange emotion passed over House's face and then he lowered his eyes.

For lack of a better noun, Wilson called that expression shame. "House…"

"I'm _sorry_," he insisted.

"Ihh…um…it's okay. It's…it's fine, House." Wilson bobbed his head a few times and hoped it didn't look as much like a twitch as it felt. His fingers twittered at his sides, though, so he stuffed them into his pockets.

House's gaze veered off to the right, hooded flickers of too-bright blue. A child who knows he's being chased, that it's only a matter of time before he's caught.

Wilson watched both Houses stare off across the sidewalk - the real House, and the one trapped in the window. "Hey." Wilson reached out to grasp House's elbow, to draw him back from whatever moment he seemed about to disappear in.

House almost flinched, or tried to. His head swayed a little bit in the breeze as he lowered it, his eyelids at half mast. Then he parted his lips to draw in a labored breath and let his eyes sidle over to Wilson's pant leg.

"House." Wilson shook him a little bit and House came back to himself in a slow, measured series of breaths. "Let's go back to the car. Okay?"

House nodded minimally but his gaze wandered off again, air fluttering from his lungs like shredded paper.

"The car, House," Wilson insisted.

"I think…" The words came out sticky, tar and gravel on a country road.

Wilson grasped his other arm too and gently turned him around. "It's okay. We'll sit in the car and wait for Olivia."

"I don't…shouldn't be here."

"I know. We're leaving."

"Wilson – "

"Don't get lost." Wilson tugged on his arm. When that didn't work, Wilson stepped in front of him and took his face in both hands. Stubble scraped Wilson's palms like sandpaper. "You're fine. House, you're fine. Come with me."

A low sound made it's way as far as the depths of House's throat, and then he swallowed it back down. Then he swallowed a second time and tried to turn his head to the side before he swallowed again, his eyelids fluttering shut.

"House?" Wilson grasped his face more tightly to keep it pointed toward him.

House opened his mouth to say something but all he did was make some sort of clicking sound in the back of his throat. And then he grunted once as a shudder ran sharply through him.

The doctor in Wilson understood too late that it was a simple partial seizure, not an emotion, that had gripped House, and he let out a horrified breath as he realized that it wasn't going to stop. It was generalizing. An obscenity snuck out on Wilson's next exhale. It was surreal, watching House's eyes blink back open, wide and unseeing, pupils dilated to freakish proportions before he threw his head back, his legs giving out as his frame went rigid. He nearly slipped right out of Wilson's hands but they somehow fell to the ground together and Wilson made sure that they didn't hit the pavement too hard.

It all happened so quickly that Wilson could hardly take in any single detail. The procedure room flashed in snapshots through Wilson's mind, House impaled on an operating table with electrodes jammed into his brain. He was gritting his teeth just like that time, abdominal muscles clenched to pull him into a curl even though the rest of him strained to bow backwards, open eyes fixed and sightless. Tendons stood out all over his body, and he was salivating and swallowing without a conscious thought. And the sounds…Wilson tried to block them out, not listen, but he could still hear them, like a dying animal with its throat ripped out.

Somewhere above them, a stranger was dialing for an ambulance. Wilson ignored him when he asked a question, something the dispatcher told him to relay, and folded himself around House's upper body as he quaked. A distant part of Wilson's mind remarked upon the way House had drawn his elbows in close to his body but left his hands splayed in the air, fingers bent back and yet curled just the tiniest bit at the ends to claw at empty space. House's breath came erratically when it came at all, short, harsh exhalations tinged with odd guttural grunts that resembled a rickety door stirred by a passing wind.

Wilson forced House partway onto his side and cradled his head in the crook of his arm to keep him from smashing it on the sidewalk, bracing House against his own hip. In his periphery, Wilson could see one of House's feet, his sneakered heel tapping an irregular beat against the ground in time with the convulsions, right next to the black spot of old, dried gum. Beyond that, over by the mailbox, another pair of feet stood still, black steel-toed boots scuffed and creased from long use. Providence made Wilson follow the line of the bystander's body up to his face when all Wilson actually wanted to do was bend down and wrap himself around House's torso. He gave a start of recognition. That man had been in the SUV that had chased them. The passenger. Wilson had not been able to describe the man to the police, but the survival-based portion of his brain knew damn well who it was.

"Call the police."

The good Samaritan with the phone stopped talking to the emergency operator and fixed a confused look on Wilson. "An ambulance is coming. I already called – "

"No, the _police_," Wilson growled. He angled himself as if to shield House's quaking body from the criminal twenty feet away on the sidewalk. The seizure was tapering off and Wilson clutched House all the harder for it, his fingers twisted in the fabric of House's blazer, oblivious to the drool saturating the sleeve of his shirt where House's head rested. "That man behind you is a meth dealer." He indicated House with a sideways dip of his head. "House blew the whistle on them. They've been chasing us."

"I…" The Samaritan divided his attention between Wilson and his phone, clearly skeptical. "Sir, I'm sure you're – "

"I'm not delusional!" Wilson snapped. "We're doctors. He had a patient…" He trailed off to reconsider the wisdom of telling the truth, then forged on ahead. "Do you remember the thing on television about a month ago, the shooting at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital? That was us. House was the doctor – we were the ones in the room when it happened. _Please_, you have to get the police out here."

The Samaritan blinked at Wilson for good measure, glanced down at House's now still form. House shivered so imperceptibly now that Wilson could barely feel it, and then the Samaritan swiveled his phone back to talk into it. He relayed what Wilson had said, all the while eyeing the both of them as if they might spring like snakes in the grass to take him down. A moment later, the Samaritan's expression went from wary to surprised, and then he asked, "You're Doctor Wilson? The dispatcher – "

"Yes, Wilson. And Doctor House."

"The lady says she knows you. She's calling for police too."

Wilson nodded his thanks and glared past the Samaritan's shoulder to where the meth dealer was backing away toward a silver Toyota Camry. A second man lounged against the Camry, but he pushed off as his buddy retreated toward him. Wilson didn't recognize the second guy but he made a concerted effort to remember his face. Sirens blared in the distance, and that seemed all the impetus the two men needed to pile into the little car and make their escape.

Wilson ducked back down over House as the Samaritan read the license plate number into the phone. A fine sheen of sweat gleamed across House's brow and Wilson raked a few stray tufts back to stand in damp spikes at House's hairline. His eyes were still open, but barely; two slits of glazed, watery blue reflected Wilson's face without a hint of recognition. As House had gone limp in Wilson's arms, he seemed to have grown heavier, a giant ragdoll stuffed with sand, his head lolling against the inside of Wilson's elbow. House had bitten something during the seizure; a fine trickle of red mixed in with the line of drool running down House's left cheek to stain a patch of stubble. The wetness glittered in the ambient light of early morning and Wilson sat back on the sidewalk so that he could pull House into his lap. Cold concrete bit through Wilson's thin work slacks but he hardly cared right now.

They were rocking just the slightest bit; Wilson hadn't realized he was doing it until he noticed the ground in front of them ebb and recede, and ebb again. He should check House's airway, time his pulse, check his pupil reactions... Wilson did none of that; he merely rocked a little harder and whispered nonsense under his breath, ostensibly to reassure House but more to sooth himself, seeing as how House probably couldn't understand him right now anyway, if he could hear Wilson at all.

"Mister? Uh…Doctor Wilson?"

Wilson glanced across House's body at the Samaritan, who had kneeled down in front of them. "Its fine. Just a seizure. He'll be fine."

The Samaritan nodded uncertainly, and then for some reason known only to the jackass who invented small talk as a necessary social convention, he offered, "I have a cousin with epilepsy. It's rough, huh?"

Wilson's eyes narrowed but he decided against bitching the poor guy out; he was just trying to be polite. "Yeah." Somewhere along the way, Wilson had apparently lost some of his breath; he sounded winded now. "I guess it would be." Wilson looked down, disconcerted by House's fixed stare under drooping eyelids. "Hey," he breathed. "You recognize me yet?"

House made it halfway through a blink and then made an effort to focus on Wilson's face. "Ghik." House frowned at his own incomprehensibility, and then licked his lips, pulling a slack though disgusted face as he tasted the blood in the corner of his mouth. "Mup. Wils'n."

"Yeah." Wilson grinned like an idiot, as if House slurring out his name was the best thing that had happened to him all year. "Do you know where you are?"

"M'in the…no." Only a remote part of House seemed worried by that; the rest of him was too confused to bother.

"It's okay," Wilson reassured him. House probably didn't need to hear it, but Wilson needed to say it. "Just take your time. What's the last thing you remember?"

House gave a sudden, violent shiver and turned his face toward Wilson's stomach. For one heart-stopping moment, Wilson thought that a secondary seizure was about to hit – an aftershock. But House took a deep breath and then twitched as a measure of awareness snatched at him. "Can'stay here. Wils'n, th'guys. Gotsa…go."

"The…you _saw_ them?" Wilson asked. He raked the hair back from House's face, and cupped his cheek to keep him from looking off somewhere else. "House?"

A clumsy hand slapped at Wilson's arm. "Stop pettin' me."

Wilson shifted to let House's head nestle in the crook of his arm. "That's what you were trying to say, isn't it? That we should leave. But the words wouldn't come."

"Amuff…um. Suh plates. I 'member 'em." House fumbled in a bid for obstinacy, but his coordination was too off for him to sit up or risk pushing Wilson away. He heaved a put-upon sigh and slumped back, allowing Wilson to cradle him in public.

"We already got the plate number," Wilson told him. "Don't worry about it."

"Wuzn worried." House sucked in a deep breath and blinked a few times, his gaze hovering near his own feet. "You worry."

A car door slammed at the curb right next to them and Wilson tensed to…what, throw House over his shoulder and run? But it was only Olivia. She rounded the car, eyes scanning the scene in front of her, eyebrows pulled down in a concerted mouth-less frown. "James? What – I figured you two fought, but I thought it was a verbal thing! What the hell did you do?"

Surprisingly, House beat Wilson to the indignation stage, but his version of a snappy comeback just sounded pitiful; his mouth couldn't keep up with all of the necessary syllables. "He wuzn' doin'nenythin! Fuggin guyz in da window were comin'."

The pronounced slur of House's angry but garbled retort made Wilson wince. He covered it up by bowing his head back over House's and telling him to just lay quiet.

"No! Tellerofferme. M'too sluffer…slurrin…can'talk right."

"I'm not telling her off, House. She came out here to help."

House snorted but subsided for the moment, blinking sleepily. "Cold."

Olivia crouched down next to them and shrugged out of her jacket. "What is he talking about? Men in the window?"

Wilson heaved House up far enough for Olivia to get her jacket under his shoulders to help insulate him from the chill of the pavement. House had already dropped off into an exhausted seizure-induced slumber. It seemed sudden, the way he just passed out, but Wilson forced himself to acknowledge that under the circumstances, there was nothing unusual about it. The fact that House had been awake and mildly coherent within two minutes of the seizure – _that_ was unusual. Wilson tried to arrange their limbs comfortably, but there was no way House wouldn't wake up stiff and sore later on, so he settled for scratching at the crust of blood that had stained a line across his cheek.

"James?"

Since Wilson considered his attention too occupied to respond to Olivia, the Samaritan explained the situation. Nice guy, Wilson thought; he should get the man's name and send him a card or something. His mental note evaporated when he caught sight of the ambulance careening through the intersection down the street. A police cruiser followed directly behind. Not thirty seconds later, a second cruiser shot around the corner, coming from the opposite direction. And then there were paramedics all over the place like busy-body bugs, and squawking radios drowning out the cadence of Wilson's thoughts. Olivia helped extract House from his grasp while some other random EMT pulled him to his feet and pushed him out of the way.

"Doctor Wilson?"

Wilson tore his eyes from House's face, which was now obscured by an oxygen mask, and blinked at Officer Morrow. "Patty."

A wry smile graced her features. "I'll let that one slip, Doc."

Wilson figured he was supposed to smile back. Not happening. "The guys were here. The drug dealers." He pointed to the empty parking meter down the street where the Camry had been parked.

"I know. There's an APB out for their license plate. The plates are stolen, but the car's probably not. You'd be surprised how many people don't know their own plate number. Probably didn't even notice the switch."

"Right, fine. Okay." Wilson took a step in House's direction and watched with a hawk's eye as the EMT's expanded the stretcher to wheel House to the ambulance. "I have to go with – "

"Oh, nonono." Morrow snatched his arm before he could move two feet and hauled him back. It wouldn't have made a difference if she hadn't caught him off guard. "You're coming with us."

"No, I have to go with _him_." Wilson twisted from her grasp only to be blocked by her Neanderthal partner.

"You'll come with us in the cruiser," Morrow countered, firm and yet angling for sympathetic. Her demeanor fell short, though, and Wilson thought her colder for having been so close. "And _we'll _drive you to the hospital."

"No, I _won't_ – "

"James." Olivia slipped right up between Wilson and the cops, and with a gesture common to people accustomed to being obeyed, she shooed the officers back a few steps. "He can ride with me. We'll follow the ambulance, and you follow us."

Morrow exchanged a dubious look with her partner and then hooked her thumbs in her gun belt. "Ma'am – "

"I'm his psychiatrist," Olivia snapped. And oh, did she know how to give _the look_. "Trust me, it's easier this way."

Morrow flared her nostrils but her partner was already walking away. "You stay on the ambulance," Morrow snapped. "I want your bumpers to kiss every time they brake."

"Don't worry; they will." Olivia grabbed Wilson's shoulders and steered him toward her own car.

Wilson stumbled forward, but he pointed at his Volvo. "What about my car? I can't leave my car here."

The officers from the second cruiser heard him, nodded at each other, and one offered, "If you give me your keys, sir, we'd be happy to drive it to the hospital for you once we finish taking witness statements."

"Okay, yeah. Thanks. Thank you." Wilson nearly dropped his key ring as he dragged it from his pocket, and the officer smiled as he accepted it. "Thanks," Wilson repeated, the epitome of distraction; his gaze didn't fall anywhere near the nice man when he said it.

Before they left, Wilson clambered back out of Olivia's car to snatch House's cane up off the pavement, and by the time the ambulance pulled away, Wilson had not yet managed to snap his seatbelt. Olivia peeled out after it anyway. The flashing lights in front and behind wore on Wilson's already frazzled nerves and he tried to rub at the imminent migraine brewing between his brows, the seatbelt hooked in his elbow. That was as far as he could manage to get right now. Last time he had gotten a headache, House had brought him Metoclopramide. And then Wilson had inadvertently gotten stoned, and House had smiled at him.

Wilson thumped his forehead against the window with a groan and concentrated on slowing his racing heart.

"How are we doing, sport?"

Without opening his eyes, Wilson mumbled, "Who's 'we'? And don't call me sport; I'm ten years older than you."

"Yeah, okay. Cranky's a healthy reaction."

Wilson peeled one eye open to glare at her, but engaging her seemed way beyond exhausting right now.

Olivia waited until the polite period for response had passed, and then chanced a glance at him. More gently than he expected, she prodded, "Talk to me. Why did House call me like that? What happened?" She paused, expectant, and then added, "You both sounded pretty upset. You realize that, right?"

"Yeah," Wilson rasped. He inhaled because he wasn't sure he'd been doing enough of that for the past few minutes, and let his vision go out of focus. Blurry storefronts whizzed by his window in streaks of bleeding colors. "I don't think…I think it's…there's too much."

"James. Do you have your pills with you?"

Wilson shook his head and made an effort to swallow, but he had an obstruction back there. It was funny because he wasn't upset. He probably should be. Shouldn't he? That was the proper reaction, right? Discomfort, sadness, empathy, disgust, something. Maybe it would catch up with him later. "My stuff's in my car."

"Alright, that's fine. I'll get you something when we get to the hospital."

"I feel fine," Wilson argued. Only after the fact did he notice that his voice had dropped to a weak, raspy monotone. He catalogued symptoms the way he figured House would and concluded that yes, he was upset. "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to react."

"To what?"

Wilson inhaled a sigh and blinked a few times out the window. How to put it? _Should_ he put it? He didn't actually know anything; all House had done was tell him to shut his trap.

"Is it the seizure? Are you worried?"

"No. I mean yes, but no."

"Then what? The drug case?"

Wilson pressed his lips together and wondered if that queasy flutter in his stomach meant anything. A second later, he decided he was cold and wrapped his jacket more tightly around himself.

"If you're worried about breaking his confidence, I understand. We can wait until everything's settled, until House is stable. Then all three of us can talk, and if he doesn't want me to know, it's okay. You don't have to decide whether or not to tell me."

"I think maybe…society trains us not to react," Wilson said. He had no idea why he was talking, much less why he said _that_. "With kids, then…yeah. We're supposed to be angry and indignant, and want revenge, and parade around acting horrified. But with adults…it's too late, so what's the point? Being properly horrified is just…un-PC."

Olivia didn't say anything for two blocks, so Wilson made a weary effort to turn his head and look at her. Her eyes were open wider than usual, but crinkled at the corners, and from the slight pink tinge of her skin, Wilson guessed that her pulse rate had just increased thanks to a spark of adrenaline. Yeah, she caught his drift; he hadn't been quite vague enough for her to miss it. "I'm going to find you a light sedative, and then we're going to wait for House to wake up, okay?"

Wilson nodded without looking at her. "I should be…I should feel something."

"You do," Olivia assured him. "You just can't hold it all right now."

"That sounds like such a crock."

"Trust me. You feel more than enough." Olivia found a parking space and jammed the car into park. "I'm sure he'll want to see you when he wakes up. Are you okay to do that?"

Wilson looked at her, startled, and then fumbled to get his door open and untangle himself from the seatbelt strap. This was no time to wallow; House needed him. That, he could do. Maybe he couldn't figure out how to react or what to say, or when to stop when House asked him to, but he could be there when House woke up. He didn't have to think about the rest of it until then. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Liar."

"Yeah, well. Sometimes there's a good reason for that."

-tbc


	33. Chapter 33

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. You make my day with each one (writers are closet attention whores, lol).

Anyway...**STRONG WARNING for about halfway through. Some rather blunt talk about child abuse may be disturbing for some readers. BE WARNED. **

Side note...my wonderful reader Cerianite on LJ just pointed out that I'm an idiot. I thank her profusely. ( I think 'her'. Please don't drive-by maim me, but your profile didn't have your gender. *quails*) It seems that I somehow managed to skip a chapter when I cross-posted here, so I am re-posting chapter 33 with additional material. Sorry to all of you who already tried to read it. You may send your complaints to the evil bastard who invented Monster drinks to keep me up for two days straight.

* * *

"Hey."

Wilson turned from the window where he had been watching Officer Morrow mill around the parking lot with a gaggle of her colleagues, like watching birds circling to peck dirt and French fries from the bare ground. Except birds were dirty creatures. Like geese, honking to no purpose and leaving their droppings all over the ground for oblivious passersby to step in. Wilson really didn't like geese. "Hey, yourself."

House's tongue danced out to moisten his lips, but it was too dry and got stuck in the corner of his mouth. He cast a groggy look in Wilson's direction and then glanced around until he caught sight of the water pitcher on the table next to his bed.

"I've got it." Wilson tripped up to the bed and grabbed a plastic cup before House could even think of reaching for it himself. "It's probably the Pheno. They gave it to you en route to prevent secondary seizures."

"'Splains why 'm woozy."

Wilson held out the cup of water and then steadied it when House had to use both hands just to keep from dropping it. While House carefully sipped at it, Wilson studied him. It wasn't a clinical sort of examination; he looked at House as the sort of friend who knew where all of the tells lurked. The pinch to his features led Wilson's eyes down the length of his body; House had drawn his left leg up a little bit since waking, but he held his right unnaturally still. His eyes gleamed with an unnatural light brought on by being drugged, bright and yet a duller shade of blue than Wilson liked. The clouded expression on House's face was fading, but he still seemed out of it, and he fumbled the cup to his lips as he slowly drank.

Once the cup was empty, Wilson took it back and set it on the table. "Neuro check. Look here." An evasive tactic, maybe, but it did need to be done.

House wordlessly complied with the range of tests Wilson ran him through, following fingers and lifting his arms with his eyes closed, squeezing Wilson's hands, wiggling toes… He checked out, so Wilson drew up a stool and perched himself beside House's bed, his hands clasped loosely over his knees and his eyes trained on the backs of his fingers. He should have felt relief at the results, but a pinprick of dread had settled in his solar plexus, and it merely squeezed him tighter.

"Wilson, I'm okay."

"I know." Wilson shot him a wan though affectionate smile. Then he dropped his eyes with a sigh and redirected his gaze toward the window. Cuddy had swung House a private room, which was kind of her considering that no one expected House to need to stay the night here.

"Wilson."

Wilson looked up and smiled again, a pale affectation. "Can I get you something? Food? It's almost lunch time anyway. I can buy you a Reub – "

"You didn't do this to me."

The empty words died in Wilson's throat. A lump took their place and he breathed steadily around it, his eyes drifting away of their own accord. When he realized that too much moisture had welled up in there, Wilson blinked and settled for staring at the water pitcher beside him, a blur of hospital mauve against a white backdrop. When he figured he could speak without losing his voice, Wilson softly replied, "Actually, I think I did."

"I already told you – "

"House, _stop_," Wilson whispered. He would have shouted, but he didn't trust his vocal chords not to lock up. "Just stop saying it's okay. It's not."

"What, you want me to blame you?" House demanded, his voice hoarse from the seizure and the medication. "That make you feel better?"

"You should. I don't understand why you don't."

"You know, contrary to popular belief, not everything is about you."

Wilson started and fixed a noncomprehending stare on House. "Did you just imply that I'm selfish?" Not that he planned to object; over some things in their shared past, he undoubtedly had been. Amber was one of them. It was just the irony of House calling him such.

"No, I implied that you're self absorbed. There's a difference."

Wilson blinked, his eyes narrowing. House's lips quirked, which only compounded his befuddlement, so Wilson let his gaze skitter off to the side.

"C'mere."

Automatically, Wilson asked, "Why? So you can have a better view while you mock me?"

"Come. Here." House jabbed his index finger into the empty space next to him on the bed.

Wilson made a show of sighing in exasperation and acting put upon, but he shifted off his stool and gingerly sat on the edge of House's bed. "What?"

"You know, studies have shown that hugging increases levels of oxytocin in the brain." And with that disclaimer, House pretty much assaulted him and dragged him into a one-sided hug.

"Ahf!"

"Besides being involved in the sexual arousal process – "

"I don't want to hear about barnacle penises again, House."

Without missing a beat, House finished, "Increased levels of oxytocin can reduce urine output."

There was no help for it; Wilson laughed, though it involved more nose than mouth and he sort of snorted all over House's shoulder. He started to push away on the pretense of grabbing a tissue, but House squeezed him until he stilled just to save himself from smothering. "Ghi…House…"

"The more you fight me, the worse it'll be for you."

Wilson's consciousness ticked at that statement but he glossed over it by leaning obediently sideways against House's chest. He couldn't help where his mind went, though, and he screwed his eyes shut to banish the persistent ideas flitting about in his head. John didn't belong here right now. It helped as soon as he noticed that House had tucked Wilson in against him, his cheek resting on the crown of Wilson's head. When the nuzzling started, Wilson breathed out a fair bit of tension. It seemed ridiculous, but Wilson couldn't help thinking that House was snuggling his hair, and the mental image of that made Wilson stutter out a palsied breath, almost a chuckle. Finally, he relaxed into the embrace and House gathered him closer, wriggling into a more comfortable position with subtle enough movements that Wilson hardly noticed. Wilson ended up reclining a bit with the back of his left shoulder pressed to House's chest, face ducked into an arm, his legs dangling over onto the floor. It was an awkward affair; anyone who chanced to glance in would probably wonder if Wilson were alright, sprawled back and hugged by force, as it were. He wondered if he should return the embrace, but he didn't feel like lifting his arms, and House's body felt warm and solid against him; he didn't want to lose that.

After a few minutes, House shifted in such a way that Wilson suspected his thigh was acting up, but since House didn't seem inclined to do anything about it, Wilson ignored it too. He didn't have the strength to argue over whether House should let him help him or not. House seemed bent on thinking not anyway, most of the time. Instead, Wilson closed his eyes and immersed himself in the feel and scent all around him, tainted with antiseptics and starch as it was. "I'm tired," he mumbled.

House sighed through his nose, stirring Wilson's hair. "Did Turner give you something?"

It took a moment for Wilson to realize that he meant Olivia, and then he nodded.

"Good." A hand made its way up into Wilson's hair and House scrunched a few strands between his fingers. "You okay?"

Wilson let a dark chuckle escape his parted lips. "I don't even know where we're going to sleep tonight." A breath of laughter puffed Wilson's hair and House shifted to press his lips against the ruffled spot. Wilson's eyebrows twitched. "You're laughing."

"Remember the last time I dragged you on a road trip?"

Wilson smiled against his will. "In the corvette. My battery died and you said you were driving me home."

"Someone might have tampered with your car."

"No kidding." Wilson exhaled a long, wry breath. "I never suspected."

"You nearly had kittens when you found out I didn't have any hotel rooms booked."

"Yeah, my anxiety had nothing to do with being kidnapped by a madman."

"Oh, you liked it."

"Yeah," Wilson admitted. "I did." Then he nearly smirked and quipped that at least he had gotten House back for it, except it wasn't funny, considering where Wilson had taken him. He gulped back the queasiness and concentrated on what House was saying.

"You made me stop at a rest area so you could call triple-A and have them make us reservations," House went on.

The calm, gentle hum of his voice did as much for Wilson's frayed nerves as the story itself. There were happy things hiding in there, like a soft blanket spread out in a pillow fort. Crackling fires and hot cocoa…something like childhood where the only monsters were the ones lurking in shadows under the bed. Nothing a flashlight and a good father couldn't banish with a warm smile. That was how House made him feel. Safe. It was…strange to get such a thing from someone so remote and prickly.

"And then you spent an hour rearranging the car and organizing my glove box."

"It was a mess," Wilson defended himself. Then his face pulled down into a troubled frown. "I'd forgotten about all of that."

"You thanked me when we got back."

A furrow ran through Wilson's forehead. "I needed the break. You were right."

House shrugged and Wilson pressed harder back against him, just in case he was thinking of going anywhere. "Of course I was right," House stated matter-of-factly. "I'm always right."

"Ego much?"

"It came with the shirt." House had started petting Wilson's hair at some point. It felt nice.

Wilson sighed and then growled, "House?"

"Hm?" There was nothing more dangerous than an innocent House.

"Put my wallet back where you found it."

House grunted. "Wow, we've come a long way." He tapped Wilson's wallet back into the pocket from whence it came, then smacked Wilson's butt cheek for good measure. Wilson snorted, content, and House said, "A year ago, you wouldn't have noticed."

Wilson countered, "A year ago, I would've just let you steal it."

House didn't respond right away, but his hand stopped moving over Wilson's hair. His tone had turned faintly troubled by the time he murmured, "Why would you do that?"

"To have an excuse to come see you later."

"Oh." Obviously, this puzzled House, but he did that thing where he pondered it for a moment and then filed it away in some secret mental archive of Wilson's Oddities. That archive was probably what kept House interested in him. A few bleeps of the heart monitor sounded into the silence, and then House resumed stroking Wilson's hair, just two fingers skimming the surface, but more than enough.

Of course, recollections of the entire morning just had to invade Wilson's thoughts, and for whatever reason, he needed to shrug House off and stand up.

House clamped a hand around Wilson's forearm as Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets, halting him with his back turned. "Wilson?"

"I need to stretch my legs."

House's hand slid off his arm, but in such a way that Wilson could feel how that response bothered him. "You're afraid somebody will see? You're the one who outed us."

"House, for god's sake, no." Wilson glared over his shoulder as he paced toward the window, in need of distance. "And incidentally, I'm not the only self-absorbed member of this relationship."

"I never denied that."

"Stop being cheeky."

House hrmphed and the sheets rustled as he repositioned himself. A sharp exhale sounded and Wilson knew he had moved his bad leg to relieve the discomfort. The guilt at having been the cause of his sitting still for too long broiled dully in Wilson's stomach. House would say it was stupid, feeling bad for accepting too much comfort. And as they had just established, House was always right, so…

"Ughh." Wilson jammed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and then dropped his hands to his waist. "I need to snap of out this."

"Easier said than done."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Thanks for those stunning words of encouragement."

"Wilson, you're clinically depressed," House snapped. "You can't just expect yourself to get all better on a whim."

That sounded suspiciously like sympathy, couched in irritation as it was. Wilson sighed at his shoes. They needed polishing; he'd scuffed the tips on the pavement that morning. "Look. Before I forget to say it, I just want you to know that what you told me in the car… I won't bring it up, okay? I'll wait for you to do it, _if_ you want to do it. But I won't. And you can call me on it if I don't let it be." Wilson swallowed thickly and gazed out the window with eyes that saw the interior of his car instead. "Okay?" Too much time passed in silence and Wilson turned partway back to make sure that House had heard him. As if he could have missed it. "House?"

House gazed warily back. "Bring what up?"

"You…don't remember?" Seizures could cause short term memory problems; Wilson knew that. But he honestly hadn't considered that the whole conversation might just go away. On the sidewalk, House had remembered seeing the drug dealers, so he must remember this too.

House tilted his head and glanced at the door, one hand habitually kneading his thigh through the thin hospital blanket. "What, the donut? Geez, Wilson. I know your car is precious, but – "

"You know damn well I'm not talking about a stupid donut."

"Fine." House glared at him and then hurried to look somewhere else again. He appeared to settle on the cabinet in the corner, but Wilson didn't think his eyes had actually focused on it. Wilson breathed a sigh of relief at not having to repeat any of that conversation, and then House mumbled, "I'll stop smoking if it's such a big deal."

Wilson took a step toward him and then his feet balked. House was groping after the newly forbidden topic, which meant he really didn't remember. He was offering promises in the dark… House knew him well enough to guess at what might have come up; he probably did that quite often, which normally impressed the hell out of Wilson, but now… Now it just seemed indescribably sad that House had cultivated an ability to read people so well just to avoid the need for actual conversations. Because that was what this felt like. If House could attack first, make a preemptive strike, then there would be no opportunity for anyone to ask him anything. No risk of disclosure.

"House, we didn't even mention the smoking."

"Oh." House arched an eyebrow at him, but whatever he saw on Wilson's face made him uneasy enough to drop it and hold Wilson's gaze. "What, then?"

Carefully, Wilson inquired, "What _do_ you remember?"

House regarded him hesitantly, then replied, "I remember being on the sidewalk. _Laying_ on it. And there was a car. I think…I got their license plate?"

"That was after the seizure. Do you remember when I pulled over?"

"No."

Wilson stepped closer and then stopped again. "You called Olivia. Do you remember – "

"No." The EKG picked up the slight rise in House's heart rate. "What did I tell you?"

Wilson seriously considered not answering but House would never let it go now that he knew that Wilson knew something he didn't. Being left in the dark, even if the secret were one of Wilson's own keeping, had never sat well with him. Wilson could make something up but he didn't think he could lie convincingly enough, not about this; House could already tell that Wilson was severely out of sorts. He chose a middle ground, of a kind, and replied, "I asked you about the flashbacks."

House's expression didn't change in the slightest. Such calculated puzzlement suited his features well, but only because House had learned to affect it so perfectly; he probably didn't even realize he was giving himself away by it.

"You…you told me," Wilson rasped.

House's features hardened. "No, I didn't."

"Maybe not exactly, but you – "

" – thought you could trick me into it?" House interrupted. "By claiming I already told you? That's low even for you."

Wilson retreated until his legs bumped into a visitor chair. The attack didn't mean anything, and Wilson knew it. It was simply about control, and House needed to feel in control of this. "House, you know I wouldn't do that."

"Of course you would – it's what you do! You manipulate me for my own good. All the time – for years!"

"I'm not doing that now!" Wilson insisted. "You didn't actually say anything, okay?"

"Ha!" House pointed a triumphant finger at Wilson, but the expression of glee on his face struck Wilson as ugly.

"You just didn't deny it."

House's finger wavered in midair and then coasted back down to his lap. His expression had frozen in a sick parody of his earlier bark of angry laughter, and then a sharp blink dispelled it. The keening of the EKG pierced the room, a telltale heart, and Wilson flinched when House ripped off the leads in a fit of impotent fury at being betrayed by it. An alarm sounded out a mistaken flat line and Wilson gladly took the opportunity to shoo out the handful of nurses who responded. Once Wilson jammed the sliding door shut again, he raked a hand through his hair and turned to regard House with his fingers gouging in to the back of his neck.

"House – "

"Is this gonna be a 'thing' now?" House demanded.

Wilson flubbed his empty reassurance and asked instead, "You think it shouldn't be?"

"I think it doesn't matter, Wilson." A suspicious waver had infiltrated House's voice, but Wilson elected not to react to it. "It was a long time ago."

"Of course it matters," Wilson countered, his voice tremulous and quiet in the wake of the earlier commotion. "He…hurt you."

House gave an exaggerated eye roll and then fixed Wilson with the strangest sort of smirk. A desperate bid for levity, maybe. Or perhaps plain old ordinary denial forty years in the making. "Christ, Wilson. It's not a big deal."

"How can you say that?" Wilson demanded. He didn't mean to be so harsh; it just came out that way, and House tried to cover up his flinch by picking spastically at the blanket covering his lap. "House, I was there last night. I _heard_ you." Against his will, the memory of House's voice came back to him, stark and real in the back of his mind, crying and begging, the sound of House wrapped up in his own arms as small as he could make himself, rocking on the other side of the bathroom door, unwilling or unable to open it for Wilson.

"That's not how it was," House insisted. He stared resolutely at his fingers, which were splayed over the debridement site. As Wilson watched, House's grip tightened so slightly as to be almost imperceptible.

"House – "

"It wasn't real, Wilson. It was an anxiety attack. That doesn't mean it's a factual representation of – "

"Victims of abuse often downplay the severity of incidents as a defense mech – "

"I'm not a victim!"

Taken off guard, Wilson stumbled back a step.

"And it wasn't abuse! He didn't _abuse_ me! You don't know what you're talking about!"

Wilson recovered quickly and argued, "He _did_ abuse you. You said so yourself. The punishments, House – the _lessons_?"

"Not like _that_," House insisted, vehement. "He didn't _do _those things, not for – " House grimaced suddenly and latched his hand over his leg as if to hold the cramping muscles still by brute force.

"Okay," Wilson conceded. He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender and wished that House hadn't torn off the heart leads so that he could get a read on House's pulse. "Okay, you need to calm down."

"I don't _need_ to do anything," House bit back, all impotent fury that he probably had no idea what to do with. "_You_ need to learn when to shut the hell up."

"House, for god's sake – "

"_You don't understand!_" House gasped something else, utterly incomprehensible, and then abruptly clutched his chest with his free hand. "Ow! Fuck…"

Wilson sprang forward and pried House's hand off his heart, his fingers automatically checking for a wrist pulse as he did so. "House, you just had a grand mal seizure. Your EKG was showing minor arrhythmia when they first brought you in. You _need_ to calm down. Your heart can't take this right now."

House wheezed some further garbled denial and then fought to keep sucking in air. He sounded like an old rusty wind up toy as he breathed.

"I'm calling a nurse." Wilson strained to slap the call button when House refused to relinquish Wilson's wrist; Wilson had no idea when he'd grabbed it.

House made a face at his lap, barring his teeth in the process, and then croaked, "Wilson…"

"Hang on. We'll get you a sedative."

"Nnnn…I don't…want…"

"Stop trying to talk," Wilson cut in. He sat back down and grabbed House's face in both hands. "Just breathe." When the duty nurse flung open the door, Wilson shouted at her to get ten cc's of Ativan, and she flew across the room to retrieve it from the med cart. Wilson ducked down again to stick his face right in front of House's nose. "House, I'm gonna reconnect the heart leads, okay?"

Despite Wilson's hands being in the way, House managed to hide his face against his arm. He did, however, give a jerky nod, so Wilson let him go and started untangling wires. Once the nurse had administered the sedative, she helped Wilson sort them all out. In the meantime, House sagged back against the pillows and curled up on his side, facing Wilson, his chest still heaving as he caught his breath. Wilson could hear the air rattling in House's throat, and he spared a moment to find the pulse ox and reattach it to House's finger.

"Sat's low," the nurse announced. As if Wilson couldn't figure that out for himself.

"Ninety one, House." Wilson left the EKG lines to the nurse in favor of getting an oxygen cannula in House's nostrils. "You still with me?"

House replied in the affirmative, his tone wispy and his eyelids drooping, drowsy from a combination of drugs and lack of oxygen. He pulled his legs up closer to his chest, which would help neither him nor the nurse trying to clip the leads back on, but Wilson didn't bother trying to unfurl him. He took the lines that the nurse held out to him one at a time and clipped them back onto the electrodes, working around House's arms and the hospital gown. He somehow avoided tangling himself up in the oxygen tube. Less than a minute later, shrill bleeps filled the air, and then the alarm belatedly went off. The nurse stabbed at the button to silence it.

"Doctor Wilson?"

Wilson looked up from House's profile and the nurse indicated the EEG readout. "How long has it been like that?"

"I just noticed," she replied.

Wilson nodded. Not a seizure, but a precursor. Or a residual from the earlier one. In any case, it was what Wilson had been fearing since they brought House in this morning. Unambiguous epileptiform brainwave patterns. Wilson brushed his thumb over House's stubbled cheek and then told the nurse, "Page Doctor Foreman immediately, and then bring me fifty milligrams of IV Phenobarbital." The dosage for someone of House's weight and body type was almost double that, but the EMT's had given him a high dose just three hours ago. They hadn't known that House also took blood thinners, which shouldn't be mixed with Pheno, but it was too late to switch to something else. The Pheno already in House's system could adversely interact with a non-barbituate anticonvulsant.

The nurse hurried out to carry out Wilson's orders, and Wilson let his carefully constructed cloak of professionalism fall away. House's heart rate had slowed and evened out, save for a few random blips, and his blood ox level had risen back up to ninety five. Wilson bent low over him, bracing his left hand on the mattress near House's tailbone. "House, I swear to god, if you don't get better, I'm gonna give you such hell."

"Don' be stup'd," House grumbled, half asleep already. His breathing still sounded labored, but it was improving by the second.

"I'm not," Wilson replied. "I'm stating a fact."

"You can' save ever'body," House insisted, though it sounded more like a whine.

"I'm not trying to," Wilson told him sharply. "Or haven't you figured that out yet?"

House pried his gummed eyes open long enough to peer speculatively up at Wilson, and then slurred, "Call 'livia. Tell'er I said so. You call'er." Then the drugs dragged him under and his eyes fluttered shut again.

Maybe it was cruel to do it, but as House's pulse slowed further, the Ativan and exhaustion lulling him into a chemical sleep, Wilson leaned down to whisper in House's ear. "If I can't save you, nothing she could do would save me."

House twitched and murmured something distressed, but he couldn't wake back up at this point.

Wilson rested his weight over House's flank and touched his forehead to a bony shoulder blade. The steady beat of the heart monitor reassured him to a point, but the metallic pulse seemed to bleed humanity out of the room. Wilson waited until he knew House wouldn't hear him, and then he breathed, "I'm sorry. You were wrong; I _am_ selfish." He shifted to press his lips to House's throat and then stayed there with his nose scratched in stubble. "I'm sorry I need you so much."

A rumbled sigh leaked from House's chest in response.

* * *

Olivia found them like that a few minutes later, Wilson twined in amongst heart leads and EEG wires, and House dead to the world under half his weight. The nurse must have heard House telling Wilson to call her, and as if it weren't strange enough in its own right that House would enjoin Wilson to call for help, the nurse had done what Wilson couldn't, which was listen to House.

"James." She laid a warm hand on his shoulder and Wilson picked his head up off House's shoulder. House was still curled up on his side, but Wilson had finagled himself closer, squishing his hips in against House's stomach with House's knobby knees poking him in the rear. "James, come on. Walk with me."

Wilson looked back down and a terrifying moment of déjà vu swept over him. Monitors and medical equipment in a painfully sterile room, and someone he loved dying beside him, telling him to be happy, and smiling at him. Telling him to take care of himself. "No. I have to – "

"You have to do what he said you should," Olivia interrupted. "Which is listen to me. Now come on."

Wilson swallowed and blinked at the rough hand he held, his thumb pressed to House's palm and the rest of his fingers spread out along House's knuckles. He squeezed but House didn't squeeze back; his hand remained limp in Wilson's.

"James, he's not dying. You can walk away for a few minutes; he'll be here when you get back." When that didn't work, Olivia crouched down far enough to catch his eyes and smile kindly. "Look." She pointed at the door and Wilson followed her arm to the hall where three officers stood guard over the corridor. "He'll be fine for a little while."

Reluctantly, Wilson nodded and set House's hand down on the pillow near his head. "Ten minutes."

"I'll set my stopwatch."

Wilson gave her an unamused look as he climbed to his feet, taking care not to disturb the medical equipment, and then he followed Olivia from the room with several backwards glances. They passed Foreman on the way to the elevator, and then Wilson stepped in and let the steel doors blot out the rest of the world. It was quiet in there; all Wilson could hear was the hum of well-oiled machinery and the shush of the air vents above them. He exhaled.

Olivia tilted her head at him. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"What?" Wilson jerked and fixed a bewildered look on her, his reverie broken.

"Your inability to fix things is not a failure to care enough."

Wilson narrowed his eyes and backed up a step. "You were listening."

Olivia shrugged, completely unrepentant.

"For how long?"

"Long enough. Do you even realize how much House sees? Or how much he worries about you?"

"I never asked him to – "

"You made him want a stable relationship with you," Olivia broke in, her tone reproving. "You asked him for exactly this, and now you have it, and you're using it against him."

"Why are you…what is this? What are you doing?"

"James."

Wilson balled his hands at his sides, but not in anger; he needed something to hold onto and the elevator offered nothing else. Why hadn't they reached their floor yet? "You're telling me that loving him is destructive?"

"Look at what you said to him," Olivia replied. "You're telling me that was healthy?" She shuffled closer, swaying on her feet to regard him from a new angle. "James. Wake up."

"I'm not going to apologize for that!"

"_Wake up_."

A disembodied hand grasped Wilson's shoulder and he jerked awake, inhaling so sharply that it hurt. "Ah…what?" He blinked, disoriented, at House's face tipped sideways right under his nose, etched in the pinched evidence of troubled sleep. Wilson had dozed off perched awkwardly on the edge of the hospital bed, draped over House's flank with his head on House's shoulder just like in his dream. He fumbled his way into a sitting position and then gazed stupidly at Foreman.

"You were mumbling."

"Oh." Wilson stretched his cramped limbs, still half asleep for the space of perhaps three seconds, and then he gave a muzzy start and tried to fumble his way to his feet. "Um. Sorry."

"The duty nurse told me what happened earlier. Is everything okay now?"

"Yeah," Wilson replied through a yawn. He waved an apology for it and then tried on one of his charming smiles.

"Are you sure?"

The smile wavered and then Wilson let it drop altogether. He wondered how haggard he looked. "No, everything's shit right now. Happy?"

"Ecstatic." Foreman moved up to the bed, on the opposite side from Wilson. "Sorry it took me so long to respond. They didn't page a code, just your office extension."

"That's not very helpful," Wilson muttered.

"It happens." Foreman produced a penlight and checked House's pupil reaction. "You already gave him the second dose of Pheno?"

Wilson nodded; he had injected it into the IV port before he fell asleep.

"Okay. I want a twenty-four hour read on the EEG to see how much of this activity is baseline for him now. We'll break for the MRI; I rebooked it for three this afternoon. I also called Ngyen for a consult and a copy of his treatment notes. He ordered up a new PET scan; House never got the one he wanted a month ago."

Wilson nodded his approval. "What's the differential?"

Foreman started to answer, then hesitated and scaled back. "I'd rather wait for the test results to come in."

"Oh, that's bullshit," Wilson snapped, surprising even himself. "You're hedging to spare my feelings." Foreman didn't deny it, though he looked disgusted for a moment, and that reaction didn't jive in Wilson's mind. "I have a right to know – I'm his PCP."

"Look. I didn't want to have to tell you this, but I think I probably should." Foreman looked at Wilson, clinical and arrogant, and yet somehow caring. "You're not his medical proxy anymore."

Wilson's head wobbled for a moment, caught between a nod and a shake. "I'm…what?"

"He had the forms faxed over from the hotel this morning," Foreman explained, genuinely apologetic. "He appointed me. He said he didn't…" Foreman swore and looked down with a huge, unhappy sigh. "He didn't want a repeat of Amber."

Wilson breathed out in shock. "Excuse me?"

Enunciating far too precisely for Wilson's liking, Foreman repeated, "He didn't want a repeat of Amber." Then he met Wilson's incredulous gaze and took a preparatory breath. "Your medical judgment was compromised, you made bad decisions – "

"I was trying to save her life!"

"And yet nothing you did actually helped," Foreman retorted. He looked down immediately after he said it and held up a hand to ward Wilson off. "He didn't want to put you in that position again. Don't take it out on me; I'm just the messenger."

Wilson raked his fingers through his hair and then laced his fingers behind his neck. "That goddamn, arrogant – "

"Don't take it out on him either," Foreman went on. "He's trying to protect you."

"From what?!" Wilson demanded, impotent in his rage. A little voice in the back of his head was trying to tell him that House was right, and Wilson was in no shape to take responsibility for him. And it was kinder this way, anyway; deciding to pull the plug on Amber had damn near killed him, not to mention what he had done to House in the process.

"From yourself," Foreman replied. And that was all he needed to say, because he could see that Wilson only continued to fight out of habit. "You shouldn't have to do this again. Just be his friend. Let me worry about the medicine."

"He's not dying. You can fix him. There's no reason to compare him to – "

"We don't know what's wrong."

"_He's not dying_!"

"Okay," Foreman whispered. Arguing with Wilson right now was useless, and he must have realized that, so he changed the subject. "There are some officers outside. They need a statement from you. I told them they'll have to wait a while to get House's." Foreman adjusted the EEG leads and then leaned on the bed rail, looking about as worn as Wilson felt. "Are you sure it was them? That they were following you?"

"What, you don't believe me? House saw them too, you know; he saw them before I did."

"House was having a seizure." Foreman's tone almost hinted at empathy, but not quite; it was too hard with the cold truth of the matter. "His identification is unreliable, and I told the officers as much."

"What?! You can't just – "

"And _you_ have been under a great deal of stress. You're scared, living in a hotel, they chased you down Route One – "

"It was _them_!" Wilson insisted heatedly. "I'm not imagining it, Foreman. And even when he's hallucinating, House is ten times more observant than anyone else I know."

"I know he is," Foreman soothed. He stood up straight and let his hands slip from the bed rail. "But this is bad. Wilson, he's…you can't rely on what he says he saw. Not right now."

Wilson had no actual argument for that, but he desperately wanted one. "You said you were our friend."

From his long-suffering sigh, Foreman saw that for the lame, juvenile low-blow that it was. "I am," he replied wearily. "That's why I'm doing this. Wilson, they already don't believe you." He gestured out to the invisible officers behind the closed blinds. "They think you overreacted, that you freaked out. And if you go out there like this, they're just going to write you off."

"The guy who called the police saw them too," Wilson ground out, close to furious. "They can't dismiss us."

"All that guy saw was two men getting into a car and driving away."

"That's not evidence against it!"

"It's not evidence _for_ either." Foreman stepped out from behind House's bed and approached Wilson. "I'm trying to help you."

"How can you?" Wilson demanded. He ducked his head to hide the incensed shine of tears that threatened to eek out. "You don't even believe us."

"I'm skeptical," Foreman qualified, and then his voice softened. "That doesn't mean I don't believe you."

Wilson scoffed. "Really."

"You need to sound _credible_ when you talk to them," Foreman said, exasperated by Wilson's insistence on playing it dense. "Not hysterical. So far, all you've been about this is hysterical."

Wilson snorted deep in the back of his throat, incredulous, and peered up at Foreman from under raised brows.

For some reason, Foreman took that as encouragement to press his case, and he moved forward again, intent. "You have a gift for convincing people. You make them take House's harebrained ideas seriously – that takes skill." He paused to fix a penetrating stare on Wilson. "_Use_ it."

Against his will, Wilson's anger drained away. Reluctantly, he nodded; Foreman was right, though the admission rankled. In a last ditch bid for something resembling pride, Wilson said, "I think at this point, I have a right to be a little out of sorts."

One side of Foreman's mouth lifted. "Yeah, you do. Unfortunately, you can't afford to be. Not if you want them to help."

Wilson nodded in defeat and looked away to scrub one hand down the side of his face.

"You good?"

"Yeah," Wilson replied, his voice barely there. "I'm good."

Foreman hesitated again, and then shoved his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable at the personal turn in the conversation. "Look." Foreman cleared his throat and made a few odd faces at nothing. "As your friend, if you need to talk to somebody…about anything…I know how to keep my mouth shut."

"I, um. I appreciate that," Wilson replied, confused. "But I think I'm fine."

If anything, Foreman seemed relieved by that. "Okay. But the offer stands."

Wilson nodded and offered an uncertain, "Thanks." He really had no idea what he was supposed to do with that.

Foreman bobbed his head. "The cops are waiting for you. I was supposed to send you out ten minutes ago."

"Okay, yeah." Wilson collected himself in a hurry and nodded another bout of gratitude in Foreman's direction. "Um. Thanks for…you know." He gestured to encompass the entire conversation. "All of this."

"Just make sure they believe you," Foreman replied, turning back to snag House's chart.

Easier said than done, Wilson thought.

* * *

Giving his statement didn't go well at all. Morrow seemed to think that Wilson was off his rocker, citing the magical appearance of his therapist on a street corner, as if he must have her on speed dial or something. And Wilson himself couldn't manage to exude his usual level of charm or competence. Even to his own ears, he sounded like a paranoid loon, quoting House's post-ictal, incoherent mumblings as corroborative evidence of the drug guys' appearance. They were still looking for the silver car, though. So at least Wilson could console himself with that. But they insisted that he and House go back to the hotel once House was released, because they didn't believe that their safety had been compromised. Like hell.

Wilson could get a lot done in an hour when sufficiently revved up and running on paranoia. Of course, it wasn't paranoia if people were actually after him. He called a cleaning service, one known for their discretion considering the state of House's apartment, and the pills that were probably still hidden in cubbyholes that even House had forgotten about. Not to mention the box of kinky toys that had been upended all over the bedroom. The promise of a sizeable tip assured complete confidence. Next, Wilson called a security firm and paid extra for same-day emergency service: new locks, a keypad, door and window sensors, real-time monitoring of the alarms, the works. He also sent a messenger to the hotel to pack up their things, and he called the front desk to pay up their room fees. They were going home tonight. Period. It occurred to him belatedly that Wilson's apartment might be safer, but when the urge hit him, he didn't even register its existence. That space was Amber's, not theirs; neither of them would be comfortable there, for reasons that were both more and less obvious than they had once been.

After he had finished making all the arrangements, Wilson hurried back to House's room to find House awake, standing in front of the windows with his hip cocked against the wall and his cane chasing invisible patterns around his feet. He didn't notice Wilson come in, absorbed as he was in grave contemplation of the iron grey sky outside.

Wilson stuffed his hands in his pockets, noting that Foreman would expect them downstairs for the MRI in about fifteen minutes, and wandered into the room, fighting the frown that pulled at his face. "Hey."

House turned to gaze at him, blinked an identification, and then returned to the scene outside.

"You're supposed to be hooked up to those medical type thingies, you know." Wilson indicated the EEG and cardio monitors with a half-hearted tip of his head that House didn't notice. Since the casual approach crashed and burned, Wilson sighed and fingered the back of his neck. "Foreman wants a twenty-four hour read on your perverted mind."

"What if it's not medical?"

Wilson paused in his meandering approach and then glanced out the window to see if he could figure out what had so captivated House's attention. "Um. That's a reasonable fear, but it could just as easily be physical." He fidgeted for a moment, mentally kicking himself because he see that House wasn't taking his vague reassurance as anything other than an empty banality. "I don't think you're losing your mind."

House swiveled his torso to peer back at him doubtfully.

Wilson blinked, his head falling off toward his shoulder. "You _want_ this to be psychological?"

"Of course not."

"Then…" Wilson shook his head. "…what, exactly?"

House sucked his cheeks in, uncertain and twitchy while his gaze roved over the drab landscape outside as if his eyes itched. Eventually, he stammered, "It might be, a little."

Wilson's brows fell in between his eyes. House had apparently, in classic House fashion, fixated on a diagnosis. Nothing could dissuade him once he set his mind to proving something, and Wilson was curious as to why House of all people would try to convince anyone that he was merely losing it. Psychiatry was crackers in House's world; he blamed everything mental on neurochemical imbalances, vitamin deficiencies, and brain damage, and he was usually right. "Why would you think that?"

House moved his shoulders as if he could physically shake off unease. "Stuff."

"Oh, _stuff_. Of course; it all makes perfect sense now."

"Oh, shut up."

"Okay, look. I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm going to say it anyway." Wilson paused to take a deep breath, then held his hands out in the hopes of warding off whatever chill might greet his well-intended words. "It'll be okay, House."

With a frown, House snapped, "I'm not nervous."

Wilson gave him a sympathetic look, his head falling to one side. "I know you."

"Biblically."

"You're being morose. You only get like this when you're scared, and running."

Tellingly, House dropped his eyes to the sickly-colored floor, his cane dangling from a few stray fingers. Since such retorts were expected of him, House grumbled, "Not running so much nowadays, in case you forgot."

Wilson ignored him out of long habit; such comments barely even registered as blips on Wilson's radar anymore. "I can help you with this if you let me."

"Wilson…" House glanced upwards, then tried to disguise the beseeching look with an eye roll that came two seconds too late to be authentic. "You don't even know what 'this' is. You think you do, but you have no idea."

Wilson shifted his weight, then folded his arms over his chest. "Are you bringing it up?"

House gave him a funny look.

"I said I wouldn't, remember?"

"You meant that?" House blinked at the blank wall behind Wilson and then snuffed. "Huh." He glanced at Wilson one last time before he directed his attention to the window again.

That might have been a permissive grunt; Wilson couldn't really tell, and House was busy pretending that the rest of the room was empty. The worst House could do was treat him to more moody silence, so Wilson enjoined, "If you think I have it wrong, then enlighten me. Tell me what I'm dealing with."

House made a point of inhaling noisily enough that Wilson could hear the whistle of air passing through his nostrils, and then he let it out in a weary sigh, his head drooping a fraction, eyes riveted to the end of his cane where it mashed the edge of a tile under his weight. "It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is. You just stand there and spit out words. Doesn't matter what, so long as you're talking." Wilson studied House's still frame, saw nothing too forbidding in his poise, and decided to press on. "Is it the same flashback every time?" No response had come to mean an affirmative in House's universe, so Wilson said, "Tell me about the gun. Was it a… a macho thing? Show your dad who's boss?"

House gave a noncommittal shrug and mumbled, "They were fighting. I just wanted it to stop."

_  
My parents were fighting, it was loud, I was scared one of them would do something… _Wilson remembered that conversation in the living room at 221B; it hadn't revealed much of anything that Wilson hadn't already known. "That's…normal," Wilson told him. "Most children dislike hearing their parents fight. Most of them interfere, too; at least once."

"It was stupid," House replied, turning as if he thought that Wilson couldn't see his discomfort and irritation at the subject unless he could see House's face. The set of his shoulders alone betrayed it, not to mention the rest of his body language. "I was twelve, I was…stupid. It was just stupid."

"It's not stupid," Wilson argued softly. "There must have been a lot of that, for you. Yelling and arguments – "

"No, there wasn't," House countered sharply, his posture shifting in tune with the vehement denial. "Mom avoided conflict like I avoid clinic; she didn't even raise her voice when she called me in for dinner. My dad yelled, but he didn't get angry. It shows a lack of control over oneself. If you can't control your emotions, you can't control your actions. He was nev – " House scowled and regrouped. "He was _almost_ never angry when he…" House passed a hand over his eyes, then flared his nostrils.

Wilson digested that along with the way House seemed to recite parts of that by rote, then offered, "He was a Marine."

House didn't seem to recognize that as bait. "When you discipline someone under your command, you don't do it because you're pissed at him. You do it because if he doesn't learn to follow orders and master himself, then he's liable to get good soldiers killed. It's the same for medicine. You have to be in control."

That was disturbing enough to hear that Wilson felt compelled to point out, "But you weren't his soldier. You were his son."

House shrugged. "Same thing, to him. That was… He didn't know any other way, I guess."

Wilson frowned, puzzled. "You don't hold it against him?"

"Why would I?" House pivoted to glance at Wilson, then swiveled away again, perched between his left foot and his cane so that it seemed like his right hip swung loose between the support points. "He thought he was doing the right thing." House offered a dismissive shrug, though the gesture alone betrayed that what John had done was anything but meaningless. "Insane moral compass, remember? Emphasis on _insane_."

Now why did that strike such a discordant note? House always thought he was doing the right thing too, even when he was being a jerk. The thing was, House usually _was_ doing the right thing, at least according to _his_ moral code. Absolute blacks and whites. House must have absorbed that trait from his dad, whether he liked it or not. Wilson had witnessed how House agonized over doing the right thing sometimes, but even when it hurt someone to do it – someone like Wilson, he supposed – House still did it. Ethics taken to a grievous fault. Or a grievous virtue. In the end, it was probably all subjective anyway.

House was busy puffing out his cheeks one at a time, sufficiently distracted that Wilson had a chance to study him without it being groused about. Wilson sucked on the inside of his cheek, then said, "Whatever you may have done, you didn't deserve – "

"Shut _up_, Wilson." House rolled his eyes and glared out the window overlooking a dreary stretch of PPTH lawn, marred by a half-dead birch tree. "You think I don't know that?"

Wilson pursed his lips, arms crossed over his chest. Really, he had expected no less. "I think you don't _believe _that."

"I _believe_ plenty of horse shit. Like that the earth is hollow and mole men are plotting our annihilation via global warming and cow farts." House fumed for a second, then growled, "Fuck you," for no good reason.

Two possible responses floated through Wilson's mind – three if he counted silence as one of them. Instead of the argumentative comeback that he knew House expected from him, Wilson deadpanned, "Fine, but not here. The walls are thinner than crepe paper."

House tilted his head, then snuck a wary glance over his shoulder, as if Wilson may have grown wings. He actually looked lost for a second, and almost – _almost_ – a little hurt, but that couldn't have been the actual emotion behind the smoothing of the lines around his eyes; it simply seemed like a sad expression, wistful, whenever House let down a portion of his guard – whenever he sought to express gratitude without saying the words, just a minimalist expression. Too late to escape Wilson's notice, one side of House's mouth curled up at the corner. It seemed forced, though, and House abandoned the effort when he turned back toward the window.

House sighed and pressed the pad of his thumb to his forehead, tracing grooves that had grown deeper in the past month, his eyes downcast. His whole frame reflected some ambiguous form of self-denied inner turmoil. Finally, House flapped his hand as if he needed to illustrate how useless he was with this sort of crap.

Wilson crossed his arms and regarded House with what he hoped came across as helpless pleading for an explanation. He supposed he should just be thankful that House was having this aborted conversation at all. "You have to help me out here, House. I don't know where you're trying to go with this, and if you need me to read the subtext so that you can tell me something without actually telling me something, then it needs to be in English."

House made a desperate, frustrated sound and shoved his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes, his body skewing to lean more heavily on his cane. "Wilson…"

Great; he was whining now. That made this…something important, probably. Wilson's arms slid away from his chest to hang limp at his sides. "Just keep saying things, okay? Whatever you're able to. I'll get it eventually."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"You…okay. I'm confused. You're trying to _not_ tell me anything? Clever tactic, deflecting through actual disclosure."

House glared at him, unamused.

Wilson nodded and moistened his lips. "Okay, no more sarcasm. Can I be blunt?"

House gave a reluctant nod, his eyes flickering all over the place.

"Did he…" Wilson dropped his voice to a pale whisper. It shouldn't be a hard question; they were only words, after all. "Did he…you know. Um."

House turned twelve shades of squeamish, too self conscious to even attempt a lie, and grumbled, "He didn't fuck me."

A wave of relief bowled through Wilson and nearly left him boneless while the horrid words themselves trickled into his stomach to tangle the remains of his breakfast up in knots. "Okay. Good." When had his voice gotten so pitchy? "Thank god."

"Whatever." House glowered out the window but Wilson didn't think he was actually looking at anything in front of him anymore. Then House offered a faint smirk for some reason, twisting to look at Wilson. "I got suspended from school. The last day of the year, and I managed to get a suspension."

Wilson redirected his brain and prayed that House didn't lose him somewhere in this abstract labyrinth where he had buried the issue. Since it seemed a relatively safe portion of the subject, Wilson said, "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. What did you do?"

House shrugged. "I badmouthed the Vietnam War and the teacher didn't like it. Said I was unpatriotic, and I should be more respectful."

"Right." Wilson needed to do something with his fidgety hands, so he stuffed them back in his pockets and worried the stitched seams in there. "And you said something you-ish after that, I presume."

House offered a wry snort. "Yeah. I quoted my First Amendment right to say whatever the hell I pleased, and if he punished me for it, _he_ was being unpatriotic. Then he said that wars like that were why I still had that right, and I said…something convoluted. Like my dad fought in the war to protect my constitutional right to call him an asshole."

Wilson rolled his eyes; he could picture House doing something like that even now.

"So he sent me to the principal to cool down, and I refused to go. He was just pissed because I got one over on him."

"And insubordination in any army base school doesn't go over well."

"Nope." House popped his lips on the end of the word, speaking solemnly and yet with his usual self-deprecating irony. "Like I said. I got suspended. I was supposed to spend my first week of summer vacation in detention, six hours a day."

Wilson's brow furrowed. "But you didn't." It wasn't a question; he could see that House hadn't served that time just in the way he inflected the word 'supposed.' It wouldn't have been obvious to anyone else.

"My dad talked to them," House confirmed flatly. "I just…stayed in my room."

"Mm." For an entire summer, Wilson added silently, but that hadn't been a mandatory punishment; House had already told him, in the car on the way to his dad's funeral, that he chose to lock himself up. Wilson chanced a step closer, troubled to notice House's reflexive, wary glance, as if he were warning Wilson to keep his distance. Wilson took the hint, though he gave House a strange look for it. "How did you manage that?"

House's eyes swayed down and off to one side. His cheek twitched, a nervous tell, and then he pivoted to look out the window. It looked like it might rain soon; the sky was overcast and the scene outside had darkened considerably since Wilson walked in. It seemed fitting, as if House had the ability to alter weather patterns to reflect his mood. Or perhaps it was the other way around, and House's introspective side came out when the sky turned to steel. Wilson noticed him searching for his pills, his left hand patting his pockets without any real thought. Since House didn't acknowledge the absence of the shape of a bottle underneath his clothes, Wilson wondered if House even realized he had just done that. It seemed not.

For no good reason, Wilson moved his hand down to feel the hard press of the pill bottle in his own pants pocket, as if he could reassure House via osmosis, by taking over the habit of checking. "House?"

House started but didn't turn, balanced on his left leg, and thumped his cane a few times like the sound was a drum beat to summon the watchtower guards in his head. "They were both waiting on the porch when I got home. Principal called them… _He_ was pissed. I don't even know why my mom was out there. She usually didn't stick around for those…things."

It was sad, but Wilson felt like his knowledge of House's relationship with his parents had doubled over the course of five minutes. Maybe not the empirical data, but the less tangible parts. "But she knew about them."

"Yeah, but…abstractly." House lifted his cane, letting it dangle from his loose fingers while he gestured with it.

"But I talked to her. She new all the details – the ice baths, the castor oil, him locking you outside overnight – "

"It's not the same!" House barked with unexpected heat. "If you've never actually seen somebody force your kid into a tub of ice cubes, then you _don't know_. You _don't_ have to hear them scream, or…or beg…and say they're sorry for crying because it burns so damn much you think you must be on fire."

Wilson's mouth worked like a brainless goldfish in one of those pet store aquariums. Once he recovered his higher reasoning skills, Wilson wrapped tentative fingers around the back of his neck. "Okay, I…didn't think of it like that."

"No shit," House snapped.

Wilson flinched and tried to say something else, to mollify him, but he was pretty sure that he had already driven House away from the conversation they had been having. A second later, he merely fell silent and dropped his gaze.

When Wilson broke eye contact, House looked away again, pressing his lips together in angry frustration, flustered and probably hating that it showed. House fumed at the window for a moment, gouging the tip of his cane harder into the carpet while water streaked the glass in front of him and the wind lashed the birch tree framed in the glass. Almost too softly to hear, House murmured, "Sorry. Lost my temper."

Wilson exhaled through his nose, eyes on House's cane, his ears attuned to the plink of water striking the window. "Don't worry about it."

"We're gonna be late."

"Yeah," Wilson replied. He hoped he made it clear from his tone that Foreman could go blow if House preferred to continue this. So much for House's willingness to share.

A few tense moments passed, and then House said, "They were just standing there when the bus dropped me off."

Wilson's eyes shot to the back of House's head, surprised. He had expected silence, then a curt of change of subject and the obligatory half an hour of sulking. "On…the porch."

House dipped his head in confirmation. "Yeah. And my dad started one of his lectures, then told me that suspension wasn't a good enough punishment for disrespecting his country, and him since he serves it, and the food he puts on the table and the roof he puts over my head…" House shrugged to let Wilson know that whatever else he conjured up to fill in the rest of the blanks, it was probably true. "Said I obviously needed another lesson on how to show the proper respect. Grabbed my arm and told my mom to go do her shopping so we could 'finish this.'" House scoffed over that. "I told him he had no right laying his hands on me, and he said he said that he could do whatever the hell he wanted because I was _his_. So I told him he wasn't my father. I told him that if I could, I'd cheat on him too and find a better one."

Wilson winced just because it sounded so cruel, whether or not John deserved it, and he could only imagine what sort of reaction that had garnered. "Right. I'm sure that went over well."

"He asked who I thought would even want me." House sounded particularly proud of this, as if he used pride as a defense mechanism for how much that had to have hurt.

Wilson didn't even try to come up with a flippant snippet of banter for that, and merely repeated, "Right." God, he hoped he didn't sound as disappointed to House's ears as he did to his own. He wasn't disappointed, it just…it always seemed to come out that way.

If House took offense to Wilson's tone, it didn't show. "He didn't think I was being serious," House went on conversationally, his eyes roving over the sky outside. "I had to explain the facts to him before he realized I wasn't just trying to insult him." He frowned unexpectedly and his voice lowered. "I sort of look like him, a little. And he came back on leave for three days around the time I would have been conceived, so I guess it never occurred to him that I wasn't his."

Wilson stepped toward the window, parallel to House, treading on silent feet in the hopes that House wouldn't notice him drawing closer this time. "And then he got angry at you? He…took it out on you?"

House bowed his head in slow motion, then shook it. "He went after my mom. Dragged her inside, they were…yelling. A lot. It was like I wasn't even there. It was…weird. Him not noticing me."

"Did…" Wilson glanced aside, sucking on both of his lips, then looked back at House's bowed form. "Did he hit her?"

House emitted a mirthless laugh, an edgy warble of uncertain sound. "He wouldn't dare. A real man wouldn't hit a woman; if anybody found out, he would look bad in front of his Marine buddies. It's all about image."

"Then…" Wilson frowned and kneaded at the nape of his neck. "I don't understand. If they were just arguing, albeit loudly…"

House started to inhale, then gave a mild balk when the air stopped flowing in. His breathing didn't catch so much as pause for a moment. "I know what it means when he yells like that." House swallowed. "I know what comes next."

Wilson longed to remind him to use the past tense, but he was still shocked that House was talking at all. He didn't want to ruin that. "A lesson."

House attempted to shrug that off with a queasy shift of his shoulders.

"You couldn't know for sure that he wouldn't lash out at her, especially if he'd already lost his temper. You didn't want him to hurt her. That's why you grabbed his gun, isn't it."

House's entire face pulled down at the edges. "No." He drew the word out like a petulant child and gazed at his hand where it curled around his cane. "I don't know. I didn't want to listen to the yelling. He was…saying things."

"About you?" Wilson guessed.

House made a dissatisfied face out the window and glanced over his shoulder, toward Wilson but not at him. "She admitted having the affair. He didn't like being cuckolded. He said at least now, he didn't have to feel responsible for having such a…me…for a son." House flapped his free hand, yet another tell for his discomfort with talking about this because he had to know that Wilson could see how much John's words still affected him. "s'just bad genes. Like an ill-tempered dog."

Wilson shut his eyes for a moment, then tried not to sound so sympathetic that House read it as insincerity. "It's not bad genes, House."

House shrugged and made the flippant, cryptic remark, "Nature versus nurture."

"No, it's not one or the other. It's both." Wilson reached for House's shoulder but House saw him moving in the reflection of the window, now dotted with a the first smattering of rain drops. He shied, leaning farther to the left, and Wilson slowly drew his hand back. "Nature didn't make you evil, House. It made you a stubborn, brilliant ass. But it didn't make you intrinsically bad."

"No," House replied, dejected and yet strangely fervent. "I did that all on my own."

Wilson sighed and made a face at the tray table. He had forgotten how literally House took vocabulary and word usage. "You know that's not what I meant. You're not evil."

House grunted. "Good luck getting a majority vote on that."

There was probably no point in arguing further on that matter, so Wilson shook his head and simply moved on. "So, they were yelling. And you left the room?"

House moved his head ambivalently; Wilson couldn't tell if that meant yes or no. "I ran upstairs. They didn't even notice. Which, you know, is cool cuz at least dad didn't have a chance to call me a coward for running away to hide like a sniveling baby." Those were definitely John's regurgitated words.

Wilson spared a glance at the clock, but he didn't even ponder the relative merits of interrupting House now. Foreman could wait for them. "House, you were twelve. Even if you had tried to intervene, you only would've gotten yourself hurt. You know that."

"Yeah," House agreed, but he did so as if he were still, after all these years, trying to force himself to believe that a reasonable retreat did not count as cowardice. "And then I saw his gun on the bed when I walked past his room." House paused to suck on his lip. "He usually puts his gear away when he gets home. I dunno why he left it out."

Wilson nodded readily; he could almost see where this was going now, and something House had said last night in the bathroom came back to him. "You figured he took the bullets out. You didn't think he would leave it there loaded."

"Protocol," House mumbled. Then his left hand closed over his the fabric of his scrub pants, in the general vicinity of an absent pocket, searching for relief. "But…I could shoot. He made me target practice. I should've known from the weight."

Wilson covered House's forearm to draw his attention to what he was doing. "Do you need a pill?"

House tilted his head to look at Wilson's hand, then at his own. He released the edge of his gown and then chewed the inside of his cheek while his eyes scanned over nothing in front of him. "I don't…know."

Wilson's brows inched together. "How can you not know?" When that elicited no response, not even a glance, Wilson asked, "What number are you at?"

House screwed his mouth up to one side. "It's only a six or so. It's fine."

Wilson sighed but didn't react other than to nod. He knew better than to display any sympathy, though he usually failed to hide it. Right now, House was focused on glaring at the rain drops hitting his windows as if they were all personally out to get him, so if Wilson's face betrayed anything, it went unnoticed. Wilson worked the pill bottle from his pocket, then held it out in front of House. "Here."

House eyed it for a moment, then flattened his lips into a thin line. He didn't take them, however; he just went back to glowering at the rain.

Wilson made a face at the extended bottle, then pointedly let his arm drop. "It's a six, House. That's enough to justify taking one."

"Not if it's not real." House stabbed his cane into a tile, viciously trying to gouge something out of it.

Wilson let his gaze wander for a moment. "If you feel it, it's real. It doesn't matter _why_ you feel it."

"Vicodin is not an approved treatment for converted pain." House deliberately kept his eyes on the storm picking up outside, slumped low enough over his cane that he appeared shorter than Wilson.

"You don't know that it _is_ converted pain because you haven't gotten the PET scan yet."

House nodded in agreement but still didn't move to accept his pills.

Mostly to himself, Wilson remarked, "This is actually bothering you so much that you think you're hitting a six on account of your brain, and not the big hole in your leg."

House finally turned to face him, a flinty glint in his eyes. "You have my humblest apologies for not disclosing items of a personal nature at a more convenient speed to fit your schedule."

Wilson turned bewildered. "What? That's not even close to – "

"I saw you looking at the clock, and now you're changing the subject!"

Wilson took a step back, his hands held up, at a loss as to where the hostility had come from. He kept his voice low and reasonable. "House, please. Just calm down. I'm not the enemy here."

House flared his nostrils, but the lack of retort signaled acknowledgement that he had indeed lashed out at random, and he knew it. He made angry faces at the birch tree for a moment while he reigned in…what, his temper? Wilson didn't think that was it, so he settled on assigning a few ambiguous emotions to House's behavior, and waited him out. "I hate feeling like this."

Wilson blinked in surprise at House's tone. House whined all the time, but usually it sounded obnoxious. This just sounded childish, like a toddler who got his favorite toy taken away as punishment a nonspecific infraction he didn't understand.

"I mean, the man is fucking worm fodder," House snapped. Then he drew in on himself a little bit as if he regretted his tone. "It shouldn't matter anymore."

Wilson offered a wry grimace and moved up behind House to grasp his shoulders. House stiffened under his hands but didn't try to move away. "House, it's normal to be messed up sometimes. And you certainly have a good reason to be. I mean, the past month has been…" Wilson made a funny face at the back of House's neck and lamely finished, "…bad."

"Yeah," House agreed uncomfortably, then he squirmed under Wilson's hands. "Wilson… Could you stop touching me?"

Wilson blinked, then removed his hands as if House could give him contact dermatitis or something. "Sorry," Wilson croaked. He made to wipe his hands off on his shirt, then stopped and slowly lowered them.

House glanced over his shoulder, his eyes falling short of Wilson's body, then fixated back on the streaked window to mumble a formless apology.

"No, it's okay," Wilson assured him, though he really had no idea how to take that. Last night couldn't have been easy for him, and their unfinished conversation just now probably wasn't helping; House must have simply been feeling a little raw.

"It's _not_ okay," House countered, though he sounded more petulant than argumentative.

Wilson acknowledged that with a nod, his hands wriggling into his pockets. Then he risked asking, "Why does it make you so uncomfortable?" He purposefully kept the question vague because what House assumed him to be talking about would tell Wilson something.

"You wouldn't talk about it either."

"That might be true," Wilson hedged.

"It's…ex_haust_ing, Wilson. _You_ know."

Wilson bit his lip before asking, "I know _what's_ exhausting?"

"The…" House stumbled over the right words, then shrugged. "The persona thing. Keeping up the appearance."

"Ah." Wilson rocked back on his heels and let out a mirthless breath of almost laughter. "Yeah, I get that." He peered sympathetically at the back of House's head.

House rolled his shoulders in what might have been a shrug. "I'm not fine," he muttered, self consciously fixated on the wet patterns on the window and the hint of fog condensing in front of him from his shallow breaths. He chuckled, but it was an ugly, sad sound. "I'm scared."

Wilson tucked his chin because all he wanted to do was touch House somehow, show him that he wasn't alone, and House had already asked him not to do that. "You expect too much of yourself."

"Ditto," House mocked, pointedly throwing a glance at Wilson, his upper body twisted, blue eyes glittering in the ambient light from outside. The rest of the room was painted in varying degrees of shadow; they didn't have any lights on.

A tolerant smile cracked Wilson's face. "So I've been told." Then House faced forward again and Wilson's smile faded, leaving his normal worried, puppy-dog face in its wake; he could see the reflection of it in the glass over House's shoulder. Wilson felt like he was treading on treacherous ground, though not necessarily of the dangerous variety. Just that if he moved forward, he had better watch his footing like a hawk. He hesitated before deciding that maybe for now, they had gone far enough. "I need to use the bathroom before we go."

House nodded in apparent relief and flashed Wilson a sheepish smile. Wilson had no idea what to make of that – sheepish didn't seem congruous to this discussion. But whatever. Wilson mimicked the expression and adjourned once more to the bathroom. He almost closed the door because even after all this time, using urinals within spitting distance of each other, neither one of them were comfortable with the idea of standing around together, attending to their separate routines while one of them used the toilet. It was just…domestic, somehow. That whole bodily function thing. House had once mockingly referred to the phenomenon as 'poop love,' which of course just made Wilson even more squeamish about the idea. For all he knew, that was exactly what House had intended by it.

A sudden burning sensation jarred Wilson from his reverie, and he huffed a grunt of surprise, tensing his urethral muscles to stop himself from peeing any more. He blinked down at his penis for a moment, his mind drawing a blank. Tentatively, Wilson relaxed so that he could finish up, but it burned again and he hissed, one hand on himself and the other braced on the wall beside him. He squeezed his penis with that irrational instinct to grab and put pressure on ouchie parts of one's anatomy, which of course did nothing for him. With a sharp exhale, Wilson muttered, "Fuck."

"Hey, are there any of those floor tread footies in…" House balked in the doorway, his eyes falling as if by magic to Wilon's dick, and then he flung his gaze away and mumbled, "Sorry. Didn't hear any more…um. Thought you were done already." He wagged his index finger in the air, then pivoted and disappeared back into the main room, his posture and abrupt gait House-speak for embarrassment. Funny how in any other context, House could feast on the sight of Wilson touching his own genitals.

Wilson grimaced at the empty doorway, then bowed his head back over the toilet and gingerly felt himself out, hoping for something innocuous like a benign cyst or evidence of a urinary tract infection. When he gently squeezed his tip, he got a pale, milky discharge for his troubles. Wilson merely stared at it for a second, then blinked. "Oh shit."

From far away near the window, House called, "I heard you swearing. It's probably a UTI."

"Uh. Yeah." Wilson breathed desperately through his open mouth to calm the sudden racing thump in his chest. Thankfully, he still had a hand splayed on the wall, so he didn't fall prey to the wave of dizziness that swept over him at the rush of adrenaline. "I'll just…pee in a cup later." Shit.

"Any blood?"

Wilson gazed past his fear-shriveled genitals into the cloudy yellow of the toilet bowl water. No hint of red or orange. Shit. Shit, shit – "Yeah, a little." God, he knew he was a horrible on-the-spot liar. If he had time to prepare for it, he could usually snow House, but not like this.

"Stress in males can often lead to urinary dysfunction," House supplied helpfully from far away in the hospital room.

"Yeah," Wilson agreed, then cringed at the crack in his voice. Maybe House would chalk it up to pain. All men turned into babies when their junk started malfunctioning. And yeah, it could be a UTI, but with the discharge and the lack of hematuria, that wasn't as likely as other more terrifying possibilities. He could have an STD. _Fuck_, he had an STD. Under his breath, Wilson squeaked, "Shit," again.

Wilson steeled himself well enough to finish peeing, then washed his hands like he was diseased. Twice. He set himself to rights in a flurry of numb panic, running a pocket comb through his hair just because House expected it of him. Act normal. Not good, not good…if it was an STD, he probably already gave it to House, which meant he had to tell House, which meant that Wilson _had_ somehow had sex with that anonymous bar lady, and he was _so_ dead. Why hadn't he just taken the tests? Foreman had reminded him often enough…_fuck_, he was a flaming idiot.

Wilson strode out of the bathroom, wringing his hands. "Okay. All set?"

He got an arched eyebrow for his troubles. Too chipper, apparently. House merely gazed at him, bemused.

"What?" Wilson glanced over himself, irrationally convinced that he had accidentally left incriminating evidence hanging out. What that evidence might be, he had no idea. But he looked anyway.

House quirked an eyebrow at him because he could read Wilson like a friggin' book even when Wilson thought he was being suave and impenetrable. "Dude, it's an infection. It's not the apocalypse." Then he tilted his head, absorbed Wilson's jittering poise, and smirked. "You convinced yourself you have cancer again, didn't you."

For a second, Wilson almost died on the spot. He forced a nervous laugh and muttered something about the hazards of oncology while he slipped his suit jacket on.

House hobbled up behind him. "Dork."

"Yeah, mock me," Wilson snapped. "That'll make it all better."

House merely continued smiling at him, a hint of affection lurking about his eyes where it usually didn't show. "You don't have cancer."

As long as House was drawing his own innocuous conclusions, Wilson didn't see the point in arguing. "Yeah, well. Nobody thinks it's cancer until it is."

House snorted, but let it drop. "Come on. Don't want to be late now, do we?"

"Why do my misfortunes always serve to cheer you up?" Wilson demanded, but he shared a fond smile with House as they left the hospital room. Inside, though, Wilson felt like the worst possible brand of traitor, a modern day Ephialtes. Judging by the timeline and the symptoms, he was guessing he had chlamydia. The fact that House's mind had suddenly stopped jumping to Wilson cheating on him left him more perturbed than anything else, and that was saying something. Somehow, Wilson's temporary breakdown and erratic behavior had led to _more_ trust on that front. He almost wished it hadn't; House should be suspicious of him – he _knew_ how Wilson operated.

Wilson himself could barely hold his own fear at bay. Here was House, trouncing along as if they were the bestest buddies in the whole wide world; and there was Wilson, sporting what had to be an illicit STD. His brain kept insisting that it couldn't be true because he couldn't perform when he was piss ass drunk, and yet…evidence to the contrary…

This could not possibly have come up at a worse time. Not even close. For a second, Wilson prayed that it really was cancer, because at least that way, he didn't have to live with knowing just how badly he had fucked up this time. He didn't want to see the look on House's face when he found out.

* * *

"You're an idiot," Foreman growled.

Wilson nodded, his eyes fixed to the MRI tube on the other side of the glass. "Believe me, I know."

Foreman started to say something else, scathing judging by his expression, but House butted in over the intercom from inside the magnet. "Hey. I don't suppose God's available?"

Foreman blinked. "Is he hallucinating?"

"Inside joke," Wilson mumbled before depressing the intercom button on the mike to respond. "God's a little busy, House. Cameron kidnapped him and refuses to let him go until he turns all the terrorists into puppies and wars into daffodils."

House snorted and the image on Foreman's monitor skewed. "We should probably write him off then, huh? He's a casualty of unadulterated goodness. The irony…"

Foreman groaned and snatched the microphone. "House, stop channeling Nietzsche or we'll be in here forever."

"Spoilsport." But House fell silent after that.

Foreman set the mike down, made sure that House couldn't hear them again, and then turned his glare back on Wilson. "You had a month to get tested!"

"I _know_," Wilson snapped. He felt like a college kid begging for an extension on the term paper he should have started weeks ago.

"And I don't suppose you've been abstaining?"

Wilson could feel himself turning scarlet by the burn at the tips of his ears. "No," he replied sheepishly.

Foreman grumbled something incomprehensible, then repeated, "God, you're an idiot! Do you know how he's gonna take this?"

"Yeah, actually, I do," Wilson whispered softly, his eyes downcast. He risked a glance at the monitor as it displayed slices of House's brain, then looked away again.

"He's gonna kill you, then make the rest of our lives miserable."

"I'm more worried about what he'll do to himself," Wilson responded, not even trying to hide how dejected he felt.

Foreman shifted, uncomfortable where he sat, then hesitantly asked, "Does he really self harm? I mean, intentionally…not like the whole anti-migraine med thing or the wall socket thing, but actual…you know, just to…" Foreman pressed his lips together and went on. "Chase said he was cutting a little while ago, and I know that when he detoxed – "

"He always has a flimsy medical excuse for it," Wilson broke in to save them both the need to hear it out loud. "But I don't really know for sure, and honestly… You know, he overdosed once, on a Christmas Eve. It was during that whole thing with Tritter." Wilson waved a hand around to dispel the bad karma inherent in even mentioning those events. "He took thirty oxy with half a bottle of bourbon. I think…I've never been sure, but I think he was actually doing it on purpose. Or trying to. Luckily, it didn't stay down."

Foreman had been staring at him up until then, and once Wilson fell silent, he directed his gaze back at the monitor. "So the answer is yes. He self harms."

Wilson sighed and studied his hands. "He's not himself right now. I don't think he's ever been actively, consciously suicidal, but when he feels cornered, or when things change too quickly for him to keep up, it's like he needs… I really don't know what he might do to make that feeling stop."

Foreman swallowed and tried to act nonchalant, but the stuttering tap of his pen against the desk gave him away. "Even if he did do something, you can't blame yourself for it."

"I can if it's my fault." Then Wilson clasped his hands speculatively. "I suppose I could always just dose his morning coffee."

Foreman should have called him more names, but he merely raised an eyebrow. "You know, between the two of us, we could probably sneak enough medication into him to make that work."

Wilson turned incredulous eyes on him. "You're serious."

"Don't you think I should be?" Foreman demanded. "House thinks that people only admit to affairs to passive-aggressively end relationships. Would you rather tell him you cheated on him right after he finally focused on doing something helpful for you?"

When he put it that way… For crying out loud. How many people other had noticed House's solicitous behavior while Wilson was busy wallowing in himself? "Of course not. But it's not like I can keep things from him. I suck at lying."

"You've been doing a pretty good job so far," Foreman pointed out.

Wilson pursed his lips and turned a reproachful glare on the MRI tube. Then he spontaneously offered, "House thinks he's losing his mind."

Foreman slumped a little bit, relenting. "Of course he's insane, but he's always been that way. I can't know for sure until I can get the scan results compiled, but so far, it looks physical. He's got a lot of temporal lobe scarring from the skull fracture." Foreman gestured to his monitor. "Post-concussive syndrome."

"But it's been a year," Wilson countered. "Symptoms should have shown up months ago."

"So it's either an abnormal presentation, or House has been hiding it." Foreman shrugged it off. "In any case, it's only a preliminary diagnosis. I want to see all of the test results and compare them to House's history before I commit. It could still be drug withdrawal, depending on the timeline."

Wilson nodded; it was perfectly reasonable. Then he grimaced at his interlaced fingers. "Will you do the test for me?" He meant the STD panel, of course. "I don't want anyone else to know."

Foreman flared his nostrils but nodded. "Yeah. Today, before you leave. Or else I'm telling House myself. You're a health risk."

"That's fine," Wilson replied. Technically, New Jersey state law mandated reporting of STD infections for tracking and statistical purposes, so Foreman was ethically and legally required to inform House about any exposure he may have had via Wilson.

"Good." Foreman glanced at him, fidgeted as if he couldn't really be bothered with asking, then inquired softly, "Did he seem okay this morning?"

Wilson threw him a startled look, then shrugged. "I suppose, under the circumstances. We, um…talked a little."

"Good talk?"

"I think so, yeah. He's letting me help, which, you know. For him, that's practically unheard of." _And about to end disastrously when he finds out I gave him bar-whore germs._

"Good." Foreman tapped a few keys to change the angle of the slices, then leaned back again. "You know, I've been thinking about…" He gestured with his hand without actually lifting it off the table. "…what I heard last night, and about the other time. You know – during the snowstorm, after he seized."

Wilson glanced at him, questioning but reluctant to encourage him too much.

"House must have a reason for thinking that all of this is psychological."

"Besides the fact that he's House?"

"I'm talking mitigating factors," Foreman pressed on, ignoring Wilson's subtle nonverbal hints that he was treading in dangerous territory. "If House actually thinks it's possible that the flashbacks and panic attacks are purely psychological in nature, then he must have a reason for thinking that."

Wilson narrowed his eyes, contemplated the MRI tube for another moment, then twisted his chair to fully face Foreman. "What are you getting at?"

Foreman refused to make eye contact. "Symptoms like this aren't usually seen in cases of simple physical or emotional abuse. And if House credits the possibility that this isn't organic, then he's as good as admitted that there _was_ something capable of manifesting like this."

Wilson's lips parted a fraction, and then he shook his head. "No. No, I asked him months ago – "

"Gee, no, you're absolutely right," Foreman broke in, mocking. "No one would ever lie about that sort of thing, especially not House."

"He _wouldn't_," Wilson insisted. "I asked him point blank. Twice. He says he wasn't abused like that."

"Everybody lies."

Wilson screwed his mouth up in annoyance, fingernails rapping on a file on the desk in front of him. "Don't get glib with me. I already know what went on – "

"You're just afraid of the possibility that – "

"Of course I am!" Wilson shouted, not even sparing a glance at the MRI tube or trying to keep his voice down. Odds were, House wouldn't be able to hear him over the machine anyway. "I'm in a sexual relationship with him, I'm a man, and he coincidentally started taking Depakote right after we had actual sex for the first time. Hell, he practically had a panic attack on the couch the first time I got his pants off. _Yes_, I'm afraid of what that might mean!"

Foreman stared at him blankly for a moment, then turned haltingly back to the computer screen.

Wilson should have left it there, but for whatever reason, the words kept coming out. Bad words, polluting words, and Wilson couldn't stop them. "He keeps saying it's not that. He insists it wasn't sexual abuse, but he won't…" Wilson tried to smother himself against his own palm and then spoke through his fingers. "I asked again in the car this morning, and he didn't deny it. He said his dad didn't actually…and I think…he almost told me before we came down here. He might have… He says John didn't do those things, but that one time, he won't tell me what happened that one time, and… House is literal. He uses words literally. Saying it wasn't abuse only means that there wasn't a pattern of behavior. It doesn't mean that a single assault never took place."

Foreman made several attempts to respond, and then gave up. Wilson figured he was regretting his offer to be Wilson's secret-keeper friend, but Wilson figured that if it came to it, this conversation could fall under patient-doctor privilege. "If he's as literal as you say…?"

"He said John didn't…" Wilson's throat refused to form the rest of the sentence, so he rolled his eyes in sick exasperation and finished, "F-word. I can't say it."

Foreman nodded, then squirmed around in his seat as if he had been sitting there too long and his butt had fallen asleep. "That's only one sexual act."

"I know." Wilson had deliberately not contemplated that part of it. House denied one specific thing. He didn't even skim over any of the other things. And he didn't categorically deny the whole notion. He didn't say anything. Because he doesn't talk about it.

Eventually, Foreman heaved out a long breath and turned his head to gaze sympathetically at Wilson. "What are you gonna do?"

Wilson snorted a completely mirthless laugh, desperate for this whole thing – for House – not to rest so squarely on his shoulders anymore. "I don't know, Foreman. It's not up to me anyway."

Foreman nodded some ambiguous form of approval and went back to watching the monitor. They finished the rest of the scan in silence.

--TBC


	34. Chapter 34

**Title: How Not To Be Boring  
Author:** FourLeggedFish  
**Fandom: **House MD  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson  
**Rating: Hard R** due to subject matter and implications. **Some blunt talk about child abuse that may be disturbing for some readers. Please be warned.**  
**Disclaimer:** I collected thirty-thousand cereal box tops, but they wouldn't let me redeem them for House MD. Now I have Cheerios coming out of my ears.  
**Comments are like House and Wilson snogging on the actual TV show; I need these things in order to survive. **

* * *

Wilson knocked on Olivia's half-open door and then stuck his head around the edge of the jamb. "Do you have a minute? Oh!" He immediately held his hands up and winced when he noticed her holding the phone against her ear. "Sorry, I'll – "

Olivia emphatically shook her head and motioned him in, so he crept forward and lingered at the back of the room, hands clenched in his pockets, acting as if the still-life painting of a begonia were the most fascinating piece of art he had ever seen. It was a skill.

Less than a minute later, Olivia signed off and cradled the phone. "Well. You're only five and a half hours late."

Wilson rubbed at the permanent crick in his neck as he pivoted to peer at her from under his bangs, an apologetic smile expertly glued in place.

"Don't get cute with me," Olivia snapped. "That might work on House, but I'm a tougher nut to crack."

Wilson rolled his eyes off to one side and dropped his hand, though he still slouched where he stood. "You used to practice child psychiatry, right?"

Olivia quirked an eyebrow and gestured to the chair that Wilson usually occupied for sessions. "I could report you, you know. You were due for a med check at today's session."

"Olivia…" Wilson sighed and let most of his façade drop. "Please."

That seemed to do the trick. Olivia relented and left him standing there unbothered while she folded her hands over her desk blotter. "I got out of it."

"Why?"

She shrugged, anything but dismissive. "I couldn't deal with that every day."

"You specialized in abuse cases."

"Have you been perusing my dossier?" Olivia's glare warned him to get to his point fast.

Wilson nodded to indicate that he knew he was talking on borrowed time, and then moved to the potted plant, his fingers raised to caress a plastic leaf. "How do you bring it up?"

"Well…" Olivia itched her nose and gazed off at her pencil cup as if it resided on the far horizon rather than within arm's reach. "Usually, when they came to me, they had already come out with it, usually to a parent or relative, a teacher…sometimes straight to the police. I wasn't the outcry witness, so it was easy, in a way. I didn't have to coax them all that much, just work them through whatever was left." She risked a glance at Wilson, which he caught in his periphery. "Why? You have a patient you're concerned about? Don't be a hero; just call child services."

"It's about four decades too late for that." Wilson flared his nostrils and plucked his hand from the fake plant. "Olivia, I think…I don't even know how to say this. I think House's dad…did something to him."

"He was abusive," Olivia pointed out unnecessarily. "We both know that already."

"Something more than that."

Olivia shifted uneasily and picked up a glass paperweight shaped like a gnome. "Did you read that file?"

"I shredded it." Wilson leaned over and planted his palms on her desk. "Why? Did it say something?" He felt conflicted on whether or not her failure to disclose would constitute a form of betrayal.

"Nope." Olivia plunked the paperweight down and laced her fingers together as if to stop them from picking up any other trinkets. "It was just an incident report about the accidental discharge of a firearm by a minor in a residential section of the base. The neighbors filed it because John didn't want to implicate his son. He was trying to protect him. The neighbors were concerned about Blythe."

Wilson worked up enough saliva to swallow and then directed an appraising look at Olivia. "I'm starting to think that John let House stay in his room for two months because the longer he stayed away from the people, the less likely he would be to tell."

Olivia nodded abstractly, scrutinizing him the whole time with her head tilted back so that she was peering down her nose at him, and then she pointed to the chair again. "Sit down. We need to have a talk."

Her demeanor fanned an ember already burning deep in the pit of Wilson's stomach. He would have to chew some antacids before he went home tonight. "You know something."

"I don't _know_ a damn thing," Olivia countered. "And neither do you. That's the problem right now. Sit." She paused in her launch to contemplate Wilson from a new angle for a moment. "How are you since this morning? Better?"

Wilson shrugged his entire body as he flopped into the chair. "I have no idea. Sure, why not; better sounds good in the file notes."

"Right." Olivia pulled what Wilson assumed was his file over in front of herself, and then sounded out, "W-o-r-s-e," as she scribbled.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You know that doesn't help, right?"

"Sure it does," Olivia countered, stabbing a period into the paper with obscene relish. "It distracts you, which takes your mind off of all the crud piled up in your corner of the world, which eases the stress down a notch. Makes you more malleable to me." She cheeked a smile and then tilted her head, growing somber again. "What has he said?"

Wilson fidgeted with his pant leg, his face pulled into an involuntary grimace. "It's more what he _hasn't_ said."

"So we're still in the repression stage?"

"This goes beyond repression," Wilson replied. He didn't even attempt to lighten the mood for once, discomfort or no. "He literally…seizes up when I try to get him to talk about it. He's said before that he can't. And this morning in the hospital room, when I forced him to talk about it, he got so upset he went tachycardic. We had to give him oxygen and knock him out."

Olivia frowned. "Okay. Considering how long he's probably been keeping this to himself, that's understandable. What _did_ he say?"

"Mostly, he just kept telling me that I didn't understand, that I had it wrong." Wilson bounced his foot a few times, his lower lip trapped inexorably between his teeth, and then he added, "He specified that there was no actual sex."

"We're talking penetrative sex?"

Wilson winced. "Please don't say that. But yeah."

"Okay." Olivia's agreement sounded cold, but Wilson doubted she actually felt that way. "I've noticed that House lies by omission quite a lot; he doesn't consider it a falsehood. That's what you're thinking? That he's hiding behind selective truths?"

Wilson nodded, his eyes skewed to the side.

"Is that what happened this morning? You confronted him about it in the car?"

"It didn't go so well."

"So I've already guessed. James, look here." She snapped her fingers to draw his attention and then leaned over her folded arms. "There's no instruction manual for this."

"But…Olivia." Wilson scooted to the edge of his chair and dropped his head to the edge of her desk.

"You can't force it. You can be there, you can poke it, but you can't just stick your hands in there and – "

"I _know_ that!" Wilson hissed. He raised his head and did his best to glare at her through puffy, bloodshot eyes. "We sleep together."

Olivia's brows twitched as she sat back. "Oh. _That's_ why you're here."

"He told me not to touch him earlier." Wilson pressed his lips together in a desperate bid not to emote any more than he already had. "Not that it's unusual for him to be weird about that, but…"

"We've discussed the casual contact before. Has it improved at all?"

Wilson shrugged and discovered a bashful smile eeking out the corners of his mouth. "He wrote me a hug prescription, and he keeps giving me my measured doses."

Olivia lifted an eyebrow, then plainly inquired, "Why?"

"He thought I needed it?" Wilson itched his nose and then gestured at random as his hand fell back to his lap. "It was while we weren't speaking. He stopped by my apartment and left it in my briefcase." A chuckle snuck out too; the thought of House writing that script warmed him in places he couldn't pinpoint. "He was trying to woo me, I think. Or reassure me. It was…romantic."

"It sounds pretty cheesy."

Wilson curtly corrected, "Romantic."

"Ah."

"How am I supposed to have sex with him now?" It just fell out without warning. "I'll spend the whole thing wondering if he's thinking about something else."

Olivia rolled her eyes, lips pursed. "Do you work at overreacting to the wrong issues, or is it inborn?"

Wilson set his jaw askew. "Were you born mad as a hatter, or did it come with the clientele?"

Olivia held up a hand and then cut right to the chase. "Has he ever expressed discomfort in bed with you before?"

Wilson twitched at the sudden subject change. "He used to, when we first got together. It was awkward. I figured it was just the two guys thing, and I backed off if he got weird."

"It probably _was_ the two guys thing. He's had perfectly healthy relationships with women, right?"

"With _woman_," Wilson replied sardonically.

"And he wasn't 'weird' about it?"

Wilson shrugged. "Not that I know of. They met, shot each other, shagged, moved in, she betrayed him, and he gave her walking papers."

"Eh. Right – we've talked about Stacy before." Olivia shook herself at that succinct series of events, then said, "Okay, so. More or less healthy. How long did he go between her and you?"

"Almost a decade."

"Ah. So half of his problem could be self image. He's a cripple now."

Wilson's shrug fell south of his shoulders. "I suppose so. I'm not allowed to comment on the leg during sex."

"Did he ever say or imply that you had hurt him in any way?"

Wilson glanced away, faintly horrified. "Yeah. He did. It was months ago; we were having trust issues. I think we'd just started the bondage thing…I can't remember. Anyway, I asked him if I'd ever hurt him before. I was trying to get him to loosen up, to just…let me, you know? He was freaking out a little about something; I don't really remember what." Wilson felt his own hand snaking around to dig at his neckline, and gave a hampered shrug in spite of his awkward stance. "He said yes, actually, but not on purpose."

That obviously had not been what Olivia wanted to hear, but only because it left Wilson even more unhinged than before. "Okay, but he probably meant that the pain came because of his handicap, and he _did_ tell you."

"After the fact!" Wilson shouted. "_Way_ after the fact – _months_, for all I know!"

Olivia peered at him, the picture of infuriating sedation. "Calm, James. Inside voices."

Wilson scoffed but remained quiet.

"You obviously didn't do any lasting damage."

"He wouldn't tell me if I did," Wilson snapped, suddenly loathing himself for it. "He's been trying to get me to see that for months now. He can't fight back, not against me."

Olivia puckered her lips up to one side, speculative. "Be…cause…he equates you with his dad by virtue of you also being male?"

"How the fuck should I know?!"

"What did I just say about inside voices?"

"Oh, fuck you. This is not the time to belittle me!"

"Why do you think he does that? Are you an authority figure to him?"

Wilson twitched. "I'm seven years younger than he is."

"Irrelevant. Do you have power over him? Do you make him feel inferior?"

Wilson's gaze crawled off in shame. "Probably. No, definitely. Yes. I lecture him. And judge. I don't really let him explain when he does something idiotic. And I suppose he might…he said it matters what I think of him, so I guess he might not like disappointing me."

"You see why this might be confusing for him?"

Wilson cast a sullen glare in her direction. "Yes. But I'm _not_ John."

"He knows that," Olivia assured him, her manner gentling even as she kept speaking. "But on some level, he probably craves approval from you. You mean something to him. He holds you in esteem and he probably wants the same back. He sees you as someone whom other people look up to, and even though he'd never admit it, there's probably some part of him that envies that. He doesn't want to be like you because hero worship isn't his way, but he wants to _matter_ to you. Because you count. Because what you think counts. You're selective in your friends, in who you genuinely care for and keep, like an exclusive club, and he wants in on that because if he matters to you, then he can matter to anyone."

Wilson blinked, uncomfortable with her backhanded praise and making no move to conceal it. "I think we got off topic."

"No," Olivia countered. "We didn't."

"Then…" Wilson scowled past the bewildered fold of his lips and then admitted, "I'm confused."

"You're the dominant half of the relationship," Olivia explained. "You hold everything House wants." She paused. "That's got to terrify him to some degree. He doesn't like to rely on people, because he's convinced that people will always let him down. If he acknowledges that he relies on you, then he has to acknowledge that you could do him serious damage."

Wilson nodded, his lips pressed in a wavering line as his eyes skittered off to commune with the plant. They were getting awfully well acquainted. Almost under his breath, Wilson said, "He already knows that. He refuses to admit that the DBS could have left him…I guess, brain damaged. A little. And I think that's why he hasn't tried to find a real diagnosis for whatever the hell has been going on with him. If it had a label, he'd know that I did it to him, and he said he doesn't want either of us blaming me."

Gently, Olivia told him, "That's a physical injury. He's used to people he cares for hurting him physically." Wilson started to sputter, completely incoherent since his brain hadn't yet caught up with his desire to refute that, but Olivia spoke over him. "He insulates himself emotionally. You, for one, should be able to relate to that." Then she fell silent and waited expectantly for Wilson to finish her train of thought. It was like being apprenticed in humanity. _Now you try it._

Wilson blinked at her, glanced at the window past her chair, and then guessed, "I could break his heart."

Olivia gave a tiny nod, her face soft in a smile that carried no actual joy. "How much do you think it would hurt a boy to love his father, and yet grow up knowing that nothing he ever does will please him? He strives not to set himself up like that again, but he's human. He can't help himself."

Wilson exhaled a shaky breath, his head wavering as his eyes found the floor.

"There's a reason you warn other people to be careful of him. Not to lead him on. Like that thing you mentioned with the date with his fellow?"

"Well, yeah," Wilson replied. How could she think he didn't already know all of that?

At the transparent look on his face, Olivia said, "I know you know that. _He_ doesn't know that, not consciously. He has better, more manly issues to hide behind."

Wilson peered back doubtfully. "Child abuse is a manly issue?"

"It's better to be messed up over latent daddy issues than over an icky girl. Or one's flighty gay partner. Could you actually picture him admitting that you hurt his feelings?"

"He _does_ admit it," Wilson countered, then backpedalled. "In other, less frank terminology while pretending it doesn't matter."

Olivia smiled again, her nostrils flared with the huff she expelled. Then she shifted in her seat as if gathering thoughts that she wasn't sure she could accurately express. "I don't want to just say that House thinks pain equals love. That's too simplistic. But children, especially sons, seek to earn their father's approval. Their love, their affection, their pride. For some reason, House has come to want that from you too. It sort of makes sense, in a way. While he recovered from the infarction, I understand that you spent a lot of time caring for him? Helping him get back on his feet?"

"Dragging him kicking and screaming is more like it."

"You took on an almost parental sort of roll. Cooked for him, helped him to the toilet, parceled out his meds, made sure he kept occupied."

"I really think you're oversimplifying here," Wilson said, slightly uncomfortable at the sort of light she wanted to cast over that. "His girlfriend crippled him – went behind his back, ignored his express medical wishes, and crippled him. He would have taken anything at that point."

"While kicking and screaming?"

Wilson chuckled to himself. "Yeah."

"Irrelevant. You picked him up, kissed his booboos, and bought him new toys. Why do you think he bothered getting back on his feet at all? Coming back to work – was that _his_ idea?"

Wilson frowned. "No. I spoke to Cuddy, she was eager to avoid him suing the hospital for the misdiagnosis and for sending him home labeled as a drug seeker. She found funding and created the Diagnostics Department for him."

"And how much cajoling did it take to get him to accept it?"

"Um. Quite a lot. He didn't really leave his apartment for three years, even after he could have." Funny, but even though Wilson had lived through that with House, he hadn't really looked at it. "He came to the courthouse to witness my second divorce, though. And he was best man at my third wedding. Planned the bachelor party." Wilson looked down again, his face falling. "I think I actually saw him there all of twice, though. I have no idea where he got to. And I was sort of too drunk…" _Busy embarrassing myself with a duck…_

He must have flushed because when he looked up, Olivia smirked at him. "It was still a good party, though, huh?" Not really a question, and she sobered right after asking it. "Somehow, he came to want your approval. Your encouragement. He wants to make you happy, make you proud. I would risk wagering that it hardly ever works, though."

Wilson made a face and sighed at the plant. "That's both our faults."

"I'm sure it is. You're both impossible."

Wilson rolled his eyes and griped, "You're too kind."

A few tense moments passed, tense on Wilson's end anyway, and then Olivia wearily asked, "Is there anything at all that he's done to earn your respect?"

Wilson started, his eyes flying to her. "I respect him."

"Do you?"

"Yes!" Right?

"Have you ever told him that?"

Wilson floated around for a moment in his mind, then straightened in triumph. "I told him I envied how he always does the right thing, no matter the consequences." Olivia merely watched him, awaiting something more, and Wilson gradually wilted when he failed to find more examples.

"Did you ever express pride in the fact that he came back to work in spite of a handicap? How he ignores the staring? How he hardly ever misses work even though he's always in some level of pain?"

"He would take my head off," Wilson replied. "You don't say those things to House. You don't draw attention; his hackles go up."

"But have you ever said anything of the sort?"

"What are you getting at? House doesn't need me to pat him on the head. He doesn't _want_ that."

"No, he probably doesn't."

"Then what's your point?" Wilson demanded, confused and pissed off by her cryptic little morality play lines. "He wants affirmation?"

"Maybe. How should I know?"

"This is _your_ discussion!"

"I'm merely poking a sharp stick. It's your anthill. What are you gonna do with it?"

"Ughh." Wilson grabbed for his neck and shook his head as he stood up. "This is ridiculous. You are of _no _help to me."

"I know," Olivia acknowledged. "But I can't advise you here. House is too headstrong, and you're too much in denial. Until something changes, I can't help either one of you."

Wilson let his arms flop to his sides and hang limp. "Just _tell_ me what to do. Tell me what the hell he wants from me."

"Interesting," Olivia drawled. "You can't even figure out that much on your own?"

Wilson balked and his voice tripped up an octave. "I'm your patient! I have never in my life had a successful long-term intimate relationship. You're supposed to help me with this crap!"

Olivia offered him a mischievous smirk. "Therapy helps those who help themselves."

Wilson blinked at her. "What, now you're a religion? You're just ticked off because I don't want to discuss a double homicide."

"No," Olivia replied sweetly. "I'm not ticked off at all. It's your loss. Interesting, though, how desperate you suddenly are to deflect." She broke eye contact to shuffle paperwork around on her desk. "And incidentally, the longer you stay fucked up, the longer I get to collect checks from your insurance carrier."

Wilson rolled his eyes and stalked to the door. "I don't need this from you."

"Is this supposed to be a dramatic exit? I don't quite think you've got it right. Not enough flare."

"Piss off."

* * *

"Wilson!"

Wilson spun in the hallway and nearly lost his footing, just to find Foreman barreling out from the Diagnostics conference room. "You're channeling House now? Good strategy."

Foreman merely looked at him, expressionless. "He's with Ngyen, getting the PET scan." Then he bounced on his feet in a blatant parody of anticipation. "And _I_ get to swab your genitals!"

"Oh, goody." Wilson glared at him as he continued on his way to his own office. "You know, I think all my patients have forgotten what I look like." Foreman offered a tolerant chuckle and Wilson rolled his eyes. "Right, I forget sometimes. You guys can't relate to that whole long-term care thing."

"Sorry. Hazards of working for House." Foreman leaned in Wilson's doorway while Wilson shut down the computer he hadn't actually used all day, and then they made their way to the elevators.

"Where are we going?"

"Clinic," Foreman replied, back to his plain, uninteresting self. "It's closed. I borrowed the key from Brenda."

Wilson glanced at him sharply as the elevator dinged its arrival. "No one's supposed to know about this."

"Relax." Foreman rolled his eyes and boarded the carriage. "By 'borrowed,' I obviously meant 'lifted.' You've forgotten how House trained us to operate."

"I thought you didn't like how House operates."

"It grows on you."

As promised, the clinic was empty when they got there, and Foreman led him into exam room three, where the blinds were already pulled and supplies all laid out along the counter. "Efficient," Wilson remarked.

"Yes, I am. Now drop 'em; this is not how I want to spend my entire evening."

Doctors or no, there is a certain degree of embarrassment involved in dropping ones drawers for clinical purposes. Adam and Eve and the fig leaves, and all that. Everything went fine, initially. Foreman drew blood, Wilson peed in a cup just in case it _was_ a UTI (please, please, ow, hiss, please, fucking _ow_, please, please), and then the gigantic q-tips came out and Wilson turned lobster red. So far, so good.

And then the door flew open, and House gimped two steps inside to find out what the hell was going on. "What are you doing in here? It's past dinner time, and I want wings." Then he blinked and his eyes tracked south to where Foreman sat on a wheeled stool at eye level with Wilson's penis. He back-stepped, face slack, and then grunted, "Huh. Not who I expected."

Wilson's hands shot out as if to hold him there and block every assumption that had to be darting about in House's mind. "It's not what you think."

House arched an eyebrow, his head canted to one side so that he looked at Wilson from the corners of his eyes. "Then you _haven't_ convinced yourself that you have cancer?" A brief pause, and then House added a bland, "Again?"

"Again?" Foreman echoed. He peered up at Wilson, trying to hide the grin. "How many cancer scares have you had?"

Wilson glared, hands on his hips, which he realized too late made him look ridiculous, what with his pants pooled around his ankles and his stuff just hanging there.

"Well," House said. He rubbed his hands together, warming up, and then planted himself firmly on his cane. "There was the sore throat."

"Throat cancer can present with swelling and redness," Wilson insisted defensively. "And I thought I saw lesions!"

"That turned out to be strep," House finished. "And then there was the itty bitty tummy ache – " He spoke as if to a toddler, though more obnoxious, his fingers pinched up near his eye to demonstrate just how eentsy it was – "that you made me scope you for."

Wilson left one hand on his waist, but he shielded his eyes with the other. "House…"

"And then there was the mole on your – "

"House!"

House feigned innocence and pointed to his own rump. "What? You tried to scrub it off with a loofa before you realized it was attached."

Foreman swiveled toward the counter, ostensibly to hide his snickering. He had also palmed the swab, and Wilson probably made too much of a point of not glancing over to see what Foreman was up to.

"Out," Wilson ordered, pointing at the door. He could feel his teeth itching to grind.

House fixed Wilson with a piercing and yet mischievous glare. "If you get off on the prostate exam, I'll know."

Wilson pulled a face. "I'm not getting a prostate exam!"

With a knowing smirk, House replied, "Then how can you be sure you don't have prostate cancer?"

Wilson rolled his eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Do you have any shame?"

House's gaze sidled off to the ceiling, his tongue caught between his teeth. "Mm, no. Not really." Then he leered at Wilson. "I could check your prostate after dinner."

Over by the counter, Foreman groaned and pulled a disgusted face. "Please stop. I really don't need to know."

"Thanks, House. I knew I could count on you to sympathize with my baseless, irrational fears." _Liar. How long are you going to let House run with that assumption? He's going to think you made him look like a chump on purpose._

"No problem." House stumped toward the door, then paused and cocked his head without looking at Wilson. "You know, I think I'm really starting to get the hang of this couple thing."

Wilson snorted, but given House's unusual, fervent attentions over the past month, Wilson sort of agreed. Which made knowing that he was about to ruin the whole relationship that much more depressing. "I'll put a gold star next to your name on the board."

House grinned, cheeky and impetuous, and pretty much most of what Wilson loved in him. "Shadow box, ten minutes. Scans are done."

After the door closed over his lopsided form, Wilson let out a long breath and bowed his head, eyes shut. "I'm going to hell for this."

"I thought Jews had no hell," Foreman offered.

"Which makes my going there even more significant."

Foreman stood up and indicated that Wilson could get dressed. "Look, I know I was sort of hard on you earlier, but I really think you're getting too worked up here." He stripped off his gloves and dumped them in the bin, then collected the samples. "House couldn't possibly stay away from you forever, assuming that this is an STD at all."

Wilson merely finished buckling his belt and shook his head. "You have no idea what House could do. I was actually hoping earlier for cancer."

"He loves you," Foreman insisted, and then waffled. "In a completely cracked, House sort of way."

"Yeah," Wilson snapped as he twisted to grab his lab coat. "He loved Stacy too. And I've never seen him be more cruel."

Foreman sighed as he opened the door, two parts annoyance and one part sympathy. "Stacy authorized surgery without his consent. All you did was get drunk."

"Maybe. I don't know anymore." Wilson ruffled his hair and then settled his lab coat on his shoulders. "Good thing the MRI films are ready. That'll be one thing down."

Foreman seemed glad for the return to casual topics. Well, casual per se. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Wilson was following, then mentioned, "House refuses to stay here overnight for the sleep study or the EEG read."

Wilson sighed and held the clinic doors open for Foreman, whose hands were occupied with test samples. "I gathered that from the wings reference."

"It might be overkill," Foreman admitted. "We can always try them later, if nothing comes out of the current scans or the blood work."

Wilson tried to sound anything but sick of dealing with all this; it didn't sound like it worked when he mumbled, "Yeah."

"So." Too nonchalant, Foreman asked, "Where are you two staying tonight?"

"Home. I called a service to clean up the apartment." Wilson pressed the up arrow and then crossed his arms, watching his toes shift beneath the supple leather of his loafers.

"Uh-huh." The elevator arrived and Foreman nearly ran into him, the samples held out in front of him, when they both moved to board. Wilson sidestepped and followed behind, glancing at the samples for no good reason. After the carriage started moving, Foreman glanced at Wilson, trained his eyes back on the door seam, and then said, "Syphilis might explain the sudden onset of being a dumbass."

Before he could stop himself, Wilson's hackles came up. "I am sick of that stupid fucking hotel room, okay? House is too; I can tell. It's a hell hole for dying relationships. If it's going to end, then I want one fucking night back at home, okay?"

Beside him, Foreman relented with a sigh and looked down. "House gave me advice once. About the drug trial I helped run."

Wilson glanced at him, bewildered. "That was nice of him."

"Yeah. It was." Foreman shuffled to face him. "He stopped me from ruining my career too, by proving that Remi and I love each other. He cares, Wilson. And he's not going to give up on you just because you made a mistake. I believe that."

Wilson twiddled a finger back and forth between them. "I think we're talking about different Houses here."

"I'm talking about the one who still has faith in humanity."

Wilson blinked.

"Don't throw it away before he does, because he won't. Okay?"

A tiny lump formed in the back of Wilson's throat and he opened his mouth to breathe past it. "Okay."

"Good." Foreman faced the doors again, subtly shaking himself off as if to rid himself of the kind words he had just spewed.

"Foreman."

Foreman kept his gaze leveled on the doors. "Yeah?"

Wilson merely nodded a few times and swallowed, then turned toward the doors as well.

"You're welcome."

* * *

Wilson trailed Foreman to the labs even though he didn't have to. He felt like a big, clumsy, abandoned stray dog flopping after the one stranger who had smiled at him from a car window, furtively hoping for more kindness, maybe a scrap of sustenance. It wasn't something Wilson was used to, this almost pathetic sort of clinginess; it reminded him of being drawn to House, but not. Foreman wasn't a pleasant person, he usually wasn't even all that nice or considerate. Like House. But he did care – again like House – and out of all the people he could have shown that to, he showed it to Wilson. In some sad little way, Wilson felt flattered by it. Was he really that starved for affection that he would all but beg for more of it from one of House's underlings? Or had it just been that long since he'd had a plain old ordinary, no-strings friend? It was a role that House used to fill for him, but House was his significant other now. And yes, maybe House's words on the couch all those months ago had been prophetic; maybe they really had lost some intangible part of their friendship when they took off their pants for each other.

After Foreman signed the samples in under a pseudonym, they made their way to the film room in an amiable sort of silence. Wilson found himself sneaking covert glances at Foreman from under his eyelashes, trying to read the intent in his newfound companion, to find the reason he chose to give a damn. He had once done that with House, attempting to unravel the inner workings of the most contradictory man he had ever met. Foreman wasn't half as mysterious or interesting as House, but Wilson still couldn't figure him out. Why them? Why did Foreman suddenly decide to befriend his boss, who he didn't really like, and a department head he rarely exchanged two words with inside of a single week? Maybe everyone simply needed an outsider in their life to pull them from the bog when they couldn't see the straight paths anymore.

By the time they reached the MRI film room, where House already sat mired in his own head – literally – Wilson was still mulling it over, though he watched House too now. It was sort of strange, wandering around a room filled with the illuminated insides of House's head. Wilson was looking at the essence of one of the greatest minds in the country. In the world, even. House was more than just a diagnostic machine, especially to Wilson, but these films contained the secret inner workings of a medical wunderkind. They also contained the visible evidence of what Wilson and the bus crash had done to him; scarring, here, a hint of residual swelling there…the knitted bone of the skull fracture… But even with the obvious brain damage, they just looked so bland.

"We have a working theory," Foreman announced into the silence.

Wilson glanced at Foreman, then back to the right temporal lobe slices that he had been staring at. "Who's 'we'? I thought this was an under-the-table deal." On the other side of the room, House sat on a stool and proceeded to pick at the edges of the films lying on the lighted table. House shouldhave proceeded to make a lewd joke about that common euphemism. It was late, though, well past eight; he was probably exhausted from running about the hospital undergoing tedious tests all day, running on a modicum of sleep from the night before.

Foreman glanced at his boss, clearly expecting a much more heated objection than Wilson's bland observation, but House didn't say or do anything to indicate that he was even paying attention to the room outside of himself. Foreman's expression waxed curious, then dismissive; he turned back to Wilson and clasped his hands behind his back as if Wilson really might think he looked more doctorly like that. "Ngyen, for one. And I needed Chase's input since he was there for the DBS."

Wilson suppressed a wince and glanced at House; still no reaction there. "Okay," Wilson said, and then he made himself breathe. "Okay, then it's a complication of – of that? It's…what, post-concussive syndrome? A long-term effect of traumatic brain injury?"

"Yes," Foreman replied. "But no. It's more complicated than that."

Wilson swallowed, listing other, more dire possibilities on a notepad in his head. He almost didn't ask, "TBI-induced psychosis?" The timeline fit – emergence after six months to a year, dissociative episodes, reaction to persons and stimuli not in the room…

"No," Foreman replied, completely self-assured. "I thought that at first when House sent me his history, but the EEG classifies the episodes as seizural in origin. They're not hallucinations; they're anxiety attacks and flashbacks triggered by epileptiform activity."

Wilson tried not to be obvious about breathing a sigh of relief. He had honestly not considered some form of mental illness before, and it had frightened him for a split second there to think that House might be losing his mind, however temporary, however physical in origin. _Psychosis_ was a terrifying word. Wilson glanced over at House yet again and tilted his head a bit, as if he could discern the reason for House's abnormal silence by changing the angle of his view; it wasn't like him to keep quiet in a differential, not even an ad hoc one such as this. No explanations presented themselves, so Wilson turned back to Foreman and frowned. "Okay, then what are we dealing with?"

Foreman unclasped his hands and held them out at his sides in his stuff-shirted lecture pose. Under other circumstances, Wilson may have shared a wry smirk with House over the airs that Foreman put on, but even if House had made eye contact, there was nothing to laugh at here. "According to his history, House has been on over a dozen different medications, some short-term, others for a few months, for both pain management and anxiety. Then there's the brain injury itself, and the skull fracture to consider. And the later concussion, possible injuries sustained in the incident with Lyamone, withdrawal symptoms from medications, psychological stressors. Plus his overall health, long-term drug use, lifestyle – "

House broke in with, "_What_ later concussion?"

Wilson turned halfway toward House to peer at him sidelong. Foreman did the same, but he pointed at one of the films as he did so. "Near the base of the parietal bone. It's recent; all the swelling's gone down, but there's some lingering evidence of it. I was going to ask you about it anyway; you didn't put it in your history, and it has to be less than six months old. Depending on timing, it could have something to do with your newest symptoms."

House gazed blankly at the film under Foreman's finger, then reached a hand back to paw at his skull, as if the lump might still be there.

"Oh!" The gesture jogged Wilson's memory and he snapped his fingers before jabbing them in House's direction. "You fell in the bathroom, remember? In, what, late February? I came over in a snow storm and you had just filled the bathtub. You told me you fell – it was probably vertigo from the gabapentin, but I didn't know you were taking it then. You didn't say anything about hitting your head on the way down, but in the morning, you couldn't remember calling me. You woke up and asked what I was doing there."

"The end of February?" Foreman asked.

Wilson gave a choppy nod in response, one eye trained on House, who was now staring off to one side with his fingers still pressed to the base of his skull. "Yeah. I brought him in the next morning, we got a CAT scan – it all looked good."

"Fuck."

Foreman and Wilson both stopped to stare at House.

House dropped his hand, made an irritated face at the table, then noticed the two of them watching him. Instead of addressing the staring, which obviously annoyed him, House barked, "You're saying I gave myself trauma-induced epilepsy."

Hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, Foreman hedged, "I'm saying it's a strong possibility." He let a hint of smartass squeak out and added, "They say that seventy percent of household accidents occur in the bathroom."

Another obscenity mumbled its way out of House's mouth as he threw his glare in a random direction.

"You had a minor seizure problem right after the DBS," Foreman continued. "It resolved itself after a few months, and it probably would have stayed that way without any further injury. But the fracture made you susceptible to complications from future head trauma. The swelling from the second concussion probably caused a slight increase in intracranial pressure. In a healthy head, it wouldn't have much of a lasting effect, but in yours, with a barely-healed major fracture of the temporal bone…" Foreman trailed off with a shrug. "We should run the twenty-four EEG you refused to sit still for, and then get a sleep study just to be certain. Certain forms of temporal lobe seizures are nocturnal."

Wilson glanced between Foreman and House, who were both conspicuously silent all of a sudden. Some sort of staring contest had erupted between them and Wilson's cheek twitched at the odd expressions on each of their faces. Foreman appeared implacable, much like House, save for a hint of crinkling in his eyes; House had apparently latched onto a tell that Wilson couldn't decipher, and he gazed back at Foreman with a measure of hostility, challenging. Wilson shook his head and spoke just to break them away from each other. "Temporal lobe epilepsy can be difficult to diagnose. It doesn't always have classic triggers." Like flashing lights or oxygen deprivation, or low blood pressure.

"That's why I wanted a twenty-four hour read," Foreman said. He blinked one last time at House, daring him to refute…something. Then he addressed Wilson. "And even if we find epileptiform activity, considering how many medications House has been on lately, it won't be conclusive. The gabapentin, for instance; it's an anticonvulsant. It could cloud the readings, make him look normal when he's not."

Wilson shook his head. "He's been off of that for a month."

"Doesn't matter," House put in. "It has a lingering effect on the brain."

Foreman nodded in agreement. "Are you gonna let me have a twenty four hour read?"

Wilson clutched at the back of his neck as he wandered away from them both. He found himself walking up to a corner of the room and stopped before he stuck his nose in against the paint. Behind him, he heard the stool squeak, and then House said, "You should just start treatment." Something sounded off in the way he said it; he was hiding something, and ineffectually at that. "Stronger anticonvulsants – something to compliment the Depakote."

Foreman replied, "You should just go back on the gabapentin. It's often used in conjunction with Depakote to combat TLE. In fact, you probably only noticed the more severe symptoms this past month because you didn't realize you were medicating for it all this time. It masked the post-concussive syndrome, and then the emergent seizure disorder."

"Duh," House snarked. Then he sighed and Wilson glanced back to see him pressing his thumb knuckle into the crease between his eyebrows. "The seizure I had when I overdosed… It could have been the opiate toxicity or the low BP, or it could have been because I missed a dose of the gabapentin."

"I still think that was just the overdose," Foreman countered. "One missed pill shouldn't have that severe an – "

"Okay, fine," House snapped. "But it contributed."

Foreman hesitated before gesturing in agreement; he probably knew better after all these years than to bother arguing when neither of them could be proven right or wrong. "And you overdosed right before the shooting too, then missed another dose of the gabapentin. That may have helped cause the flashback you had in the hallway. On the plus side…" He bounced on the balls of his feet and looked smug for some reason. "Your Vicodin intake has gone down by nearly half since the bus crash. I checked the pharmacy logs. You're down to an average of sixty milligrams a day."

Wilson lit up like a Christmas tree and turned an expansive gesture on House. "That's great!"

"Yeah," House grumbled. "Woo-hoo."

Wilson frowned. "House, that's good news. Great, even." He didn't want to say outright that it meant House was dealing with his addiction, albeit at a snail's pace, but he thought it all over the place.

House merely grunted and turned his attention to a different set of scans than the ones he had been visually taking apart for the past five minutes.

Wilson bowed his head and trained his eyes on the floor, his hand tugging his neck down. He wanted House to be happy about this too, but that obviously wasn't about to happen any time soon; Wilson changed the subject instead of pushing it. "What about the anxiety disorder?" He turned to face House again, but discovered him absorbed in pushing dust motes around on the floor with his cane. Wilson looked at Foreman instead. "The Xanax, I could understand; things were shit in September and October. But he got the Depakote in December. If your theory is right, then the seizures started off as anxiety attacks and progressed to flashbacks after he stopped taking the gabapentin. That would mean he was having seizures months before the second concussion."

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds, and then House tentatively offered, "Maybe they weren't seizures at first. Maybe I was just anxious." He gave a self-conscious shrug and bounced his cane a few times, then mumbled to his own shoes, "Maybe I was just anxious." He pressed his lips into a thin line a contemplated the floor with far too much intensity for anyone to think that he actually saw the tiles in front of his eyes. "It _did_ manage…you know…me. Until after I bashed my head in the bathroom."

Foreman moved his shoulders to indicate his support for that theory. "It makes sense. Based on the existence of a conversion disorder, we can postulate that you had a predisposition to anxiety-related disorders. Under the right circumstances, it was bound to come out."

House grunted, noncommittal in every way, then glared at Foreman for some inscrutable House-ish reason as he shoved himself to his feet, awkward on a damaged leg that he nonetheless managed to appear graceful on, most of the time. Not so much, now; House hobbled over to a set of scans displayed on the wall, glanced again at Foreman to make a point that Wilson couldn't follow, and then proceeded to ignore them both, as if he were punishing them for an unseen infraction.

Wilson sighed and then abruptly snapped, "Look, we can't _know_ any of this." He made himself walk a few steps farther away from the center of the room where Foreman and House sat discussing the trivialities of a diagnosis as if it really mattered. With his back to his colleagues, Wilson planted one hand on his hip and flung the other out to the side. "His medical history's like something out of a junior stunt man summer camp, and he's taken more drugs in the past six months than most street addicts. There's no way to know if you're right anymore. The drug interactions, the injuries, the whole state of mind thing – there are too many extenuating – "

Foreman cut into his tirade with a deceptively bland, "We could know for sure if he were clean."

Wilson dribbled off at that, his arms still raised in mid rant, fingers contracting to touch index fingers to his thumbs. When neither of them answered right away, Foreman chanced a quick bout of eye contact with Wilson. He attempted the same with House, but House was picking his lip, his weight oscillating almost imperceptibly between his cane and his good leg, as if he were standing in neck-deep water.

Foreman went on in spite of House's apparent distraction. "One hundred percent drug and alcohol free. Everything. And then we start clean, so to speak. Re-run the brain scans, the EEG, retest your leg and log the pain levels... You probably shouldn't continue taking opiate pain medication with a diagnosed seizure disorder, anyway; they lower the threshold."

Wilson blinked. A medical excuse to push House to give up the Vicodin? That was like finding the Loch Ness Monster. Something House couldn't argue with – he would _have_ to find alternative treatments. If even one good thing could come from this hellish experience –

House was out the door before Wilson even registered movement. "House?" Wilson groaned under his breath, chagrined. Of course, House would notice his ill-timed glee. Why couldn't Wilson have saved it for a private moment in a dark corner somewhere, away from House's touchy ego? "God dammit."

Foreman had raised an eyebrow, peering with his head cocked at the doorway that House had just passed through, pensive. Almost as if he couldn't believe it, Foreman said, "I don't think he was listening anyway."

"What, like another seizure?" Wilson spun to regard the door, then whirled back to Foreman. "We have to go find him!" House could wander anywhere in that state, get lost, leave the grounds, not to mention what might happen if the automatisms pass and he goes into a generalized seizure again.

"No, not like that," Foreman assured him. "Just a 'him' moment."

Wilson took a breath, his hands going to his hips as if they belonged there by a decree of nature, and then he jittered into motion. "I have to go find him."

Foreman called after him, "Maybe you should let him be for a little while." But Wilson was already out the door.

It took what felt like forever to find him. For a man with a cane, House had always been adept at disappearing into thin air; the speed with which he moved often seemed uncanny. All of the usual hiding places were empty, along with the roof and any areas on the grounds where smokers congregated. Wilson checked the parking lot last to make sure that both their cars were still there – House's motorcycle languished in the hospital garage, going on a month of residence now – before he resorted to asking nurses if they had seen him. Finally, a resident pointed him to the third floor, and Wilson hopped up the stairs, wondering if maybe House had found a patient during the day.

Wilson almost overlooked him. He strode past the secondary nurses' station, which was not in use at this hour, and only barely caught sight of a lean shadow casting an oddly lumped shape on the floor. He rounded the pillar and found himself looking at House's sloped back, hunched as he was, propped against the pillar with his arms crossed and his cane dangling in the crook of an elbow. If Wilson hadn't first noticed the direction of House's stony glare, he might have taken House's affect for dour. Across the corridor, an expanse of plywood boards draped in sheets marked the boarded up hospital room where Danny Lyamone died at the hands of his father. The hospital wasn't lacking in money and the police no longer considered the area a crime scene, and yet for some reason, Cuddy had not yet hired contractors to repair the damage done to that room.

Wilson stood at the head of the stairs and stared for a moment, a literal fifty foot stare. Then he glanced away to swallow and shoved his hands in his pants pockets, lab coat bunched out of the way behind his arms. When he reached the nurse's station, Wilson could tell that House had heard him coming, and since House knew him well, he had probably recognized Wilson by the cadence of his footsteps. House didn't react other than to pick his chin up off his chest, draw a breath large enough to lift his shoulders, and then slump right back down into his original stance.

"Hey." Wilson stepped into the carpeted area behind the counters and stopped near House's shoulder.

Without moving an inch of his body, House tonelessly remarked, "You tried to kill me."

Wilson's mouth dropped open. "I…what?"

"With the DBS."

And here, Wilson had thought that his storming out had to do with insinuations about his drug habit. Foreman was right; House had stopped listening before that. Stumbling over his tongue, Wilson stammered, "I…wouldn't. House, that's – that's insane."

"Foreman's being nice," House spat. "I can read the damn films for myself. This would've happened with or without a secondary concussion."

Wilson quelled an urge to swear under his breath and carefully intoned, "I know I'm partially at fault for this, but you're not dying. If Foreman's right, then all you need are anticonvulsants. That's no reason to think I tried to – to _kill_ you. What the hell?"

"Do you know how many complications can arise from a skull fracture of that severity?"

Softly, Wilson answered, "Yes. And it's a miracle that this is all you've got to deal with because of it."

"I could be a vegetable now."

"Where is this coming from?" Wilson demanded, at once angry with him and self-loathing at all of the accusations coming from House's mouth. "You didn't want this between us, remember?"

House shifted his weight against the pillar, sinking a little lower in the process, and then growled, "Well it _is_ between us."

"House, there was no intent. I swear. I was being stupid and emotional, and I was angry with you for being drunk in that bar and luring her out – "

"Yeah, you've already told me I should've been alone on the bus."

Wilson shook his head, his hands slipping from his pockets without a sound. "I did _not_ try to kill you, House."

"Maybe not consciously."

Wilson tried to nod and shake his head at the same time, and ended up with his gaze swirling to the trashcan near House's feet. "If you wanted to lay another guilt trip on me for it, then congratulations."

Almost too quietly to hear, House sighed, "Wasn't actually what I had in mind."

Wilson blinked, and then a quiet fury burned through his veins. "Then what the fuck are you doing?" Wilson grasped his arm and pulled him around, tore his gaze from the sheeted wall and then pushed him against the pillar when his bad leg threatened to buckle at the unexpected move. "Is this fun for you, rubbing my nose in it? What do you want from me?"

House's gaze turned shifty, eyes lidded. "Nothing. Just…forget I said anything."

Wilson's eyes unfocused, and then he muttered, "Son of a bitch." He looked up as House flinched from the sharp words. Wilson shook him by the forearms to make him meet his gaze. "Listen to me. I do not blame you for Amber's death. I tried; I admitted that already. But you aren't responsible for her death, and I was _not_ using the DBS to get revenge. Do you understand me?"

"Motives change." House licked his lips and looked away. "You say that now; it's not how you felt then."

"You don't know that! You're not in my head!"

"I saw your face before you walked away from my room." House let out a dark chuckle, and Wilson felt a foreign slither of unaccustomed fear snake through his abdomen. The sound reminded him of a certain Christmas Eve, and seeing House caught at the lowest end of his depression. "But you have to admit, it would've made things easier, right?"

Wilson breathed out, a level and forced breath; suffocation would have been easier. "What would have? You dying? No, House. What the hell has gotten into you?" He paused, then hesitantly asked, "Should I be worried?"

"It's probably just the seizure talking." House shrugged, completely uninterested, and the apathy scared Wilson even more. Post-ictal depression…very probable, especially considering all the shit blowing up in their midst. That still didn't explain why House would suggest it, though; he didn't admit that sort of thing - the feeling blue thing.

"House... House, look at me. I want you to stay here tonight. Let Foreman run the EEG, do the sleep study… Just stay here. Let me admit you."

House ignored him, a faint smirk tracing fading lines across his features. "She'd be alive if I hadn't been there to call her. Maybe he'd be alive too." House shrugged a shoulder toward the closed-off room behind him.

Wilson gripped his arms even harder and hissed, "You are _not_ responsible for that boy's death, no more than you are for Amber's. Do you understand me? Say it."

"Somebody has to be responsible."

"Yes, but not _you_!"

House merely shrugged, and his eyes left Wilson's face in time with the movement of his shoulders. "Funny comparison."

Wilson gawped for a second. "No, not funny. House, this isn't like you. This… Did someone get to you?"

"Phht." House smirked, but the expression was all wrong. "Like anybody could." Then for no good reason, House flinched, just a tiny flinch.

"House."

House looked at the ceiling with a miniscule hint of resignation. "They're gonna take my license."

Wilson's brows fell into a divot. "What? Who?"

"I was stoned. They tested the blood on my shirt."

Wilson craned his neck to try to catch House's gaze and failed. The blood on House's shirt, as in the evidence taken from the crime scene. A bullet had grazed House's arm; he had bled all over his shirt. "The police? Wait, they're investigating _you_? Since when?"

"Three weeks ago."

Wilson gaped. "You've been…_hiding_ this for three weeks?"

House peered far off to the right, perhaps to avoid looking at Wilson but more likely for purely abstract reasons. "Thought it would blow over. Things always used to just…go away." He sounded hollow, nothing like himself when he added, "Board revoked my tenure this morning. Cuddy gave me the option to resign."

Of all the times to regret not getting back on the board after Vogler left… Cuddy must have caught House on the way to the film room. And then, what – she informed him in the middle of a hallway? Hey, I'm ruining your life; catch ya later. Then there was all that talk earlier about personas, about pretending everything was fine…three weeks of pretending his medical career wasn't about to end with a spectacularly anticlimactic wheeze. Slink out the door with no fanfare. Wilson shook his head, hair flopping at the tips of his ears. No wonder House was depressed. "No. They can't do that. You had a medical condi– "

"I overdosed half an hour before the shooting."

"Accidentally!"

House merely moved his shoulders again, more a squirm than anything else, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "Doesn't make me any less stoned, or him any less dead. I shouldn't have gone up there; I wasn't fit to practice."

"You weren't practicing when you went up there, House. There was no medicine involved in that." Wilson was shaking before he knew what was happening. "They can't blame you for this!"

A dark chuckle eased its way from House's throat. "Seems you're wrong about that."

Wilson released House's arms, and House caught himself against the pillar before straightening. "What, the real killer's dead so they have to pin it on a live one just to get good press? That's horse shit!"

"I was stoned," House repeated with more force. "You can't disprove that. _I'm_ not even challenging it."

Just because he couldn't come up with a good refutation, Wilson demanded, "What does any of this have to do with Amber?"

House sucked the inside of his cheek and looked down. "I dunno. It was a convenient time for it?"

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "And you're trying to deflect. Somebody _did_ get to you. Somebody put that idea into your head. You would never accuse me of intentionally trying to hurt you; you know better. Somebody had to say it."

House scoffed. "Do you really think I'm that gullible?"

"Yes," Wilson exclaimed. "On some points, yes. Guilt eats at you, House; I've seen it often enough to know." House's scowl was answer enough. "Who was it?"

House rolled his eyes and tried to inch away. "God, Wilson; I don't need a white knight."

Hands going to his hips, Wilson said, "It was Fletcher, wasn't it. That ass had to finish what he started at the pub."

That unleashed an unanticipated level of fury, and House rounded on him to yell, "He's right! Drunk or stoned, it doesn't make a difference. They're both still dead, and I'm not!" Then he backed away just as quickly and ran into the counter, where he fell heavily to sit, hands going to his right leg. "God _dammit_."

Wilson started forward. "House?"

"I can't do this anymore. I don't know what I'm doing anymore, and I can't think straight – "

"It's alright," Wilson assured him, his hands going to cover House's. "You're confused. It's just the seizures talking."

House tried to shake his head, eyes squeezing shut, but Wilson put his arms around House's shoulders and held him to his stomach. Muffled against Wilson's shirt, House swore, then shuddered. "I need my license. I can't…I need this."

"We'll fight it," Wilson promised. "The medical board has to give you a hearing. I'll testify – "

"You're not credible."

Wilson refused to acknowledge that it was true; no one would find Wilson objective anymore when it came to House, and not just because their relationship had become semi-public knowledge. So he redirected. "Foreman will testify, then. It was an accidental overdose; he'll say as much, and he'll provide evidence that you're getting treatment for it. You heard him – your Vicodin intake is half of what it was a year ago. Blood tests and prescription records will bear it out."

House shook his head and then pressed his face to Wilson's stomach. "I don't want to fight it. I'm tired of fighting everyone."

A nurse rounded the corner in the corridor and stopped dead at the sight of them, faltered, then hurried back the way she had come. Wilson made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and then grappled at House to get him to stand. "Come on. We're going to your office, and then I'm calling Olivia. I don't care if you don't want to talk to her; I'm calling her, and she's going to talk to you, and you're going to listen."

"I want to go home," House protested, though he allowed Wilson to drag him to his feet. "Wilson, I want to go home."

"I'm not taking you home like this." Wilson steered him out of the nurse's station with an arm around House's back, gripping his waist and carrying House's cane himself; the man seemed to have little interest in using it, and he leaned into Wilson, limping heavily, his hands fumbling uselessly until he decided to wrap the fingers of his right hand over the ones that Wilson had dug in around House's belt to hold him up. He gestured for his cane with the other, and Wilson passed it to him; House merely clutched it against his torso and kept leaning on Wilson.

They made it to the elevator without incident, where House shrugged him off with a gruff word of thanks disguised as an insult to Wilson's deodorant, and then into the hallway of the fourth floor. House stopped dead right after he disembarked and Wilson craned his neck to see past House's shoulder. Cuddy was waiting in House's office, perched on the edge of his desk and looking grimly at her open-toed, color-coordinated shoes.

"Don't lose your temper," House warned lowly.

Wilson started and glanced at him. Of course House noticed him tense even though his back was turned and they weren't touching; he had Wilson-radar for that sort of thing. "Someone has to."

"I just want to leave, okay?" House pivoted a few degrees so that he could peer over his shoulder at Wilson. "You can freak out and call your shrink in the morning; I just want to get out of here."

Wilson blinked at him, incredulous. "You're just going to let her win?"

"She already did."

Like hell. Wilson narrowed his eyes to convey that sentiment, but he also gave a curt nod. If House didn't want to do this now, then Wilson wouldn't make him. But they _would_ do it, and soon; no way was he letting House go down for being the good guy. "When, exactly, did you decide to stop standing up for yourself? Was there a memo?"

House balked, and then his eyes blinked off to rest elsewhere. Finally, he settled for a neutral declaration of, "I need to get my stuff."

"Then let's go." Wilson edged past him and strode toward the Diagnostics office, shoes clacking an angry tempo against the tiles, echoing in the deserted corridor. He listened to House shuffle uncertainly behind him before following, thump-stepping down the corridor. Wilson hesitated at the office door long to cool his jangling nerves, though he told himself he was waiting for House to catch up. If only the door weren't made of glass, Wilson could throw it open to complement his outrage, but he had to settle for easing it aside. The moment Cuddy looked up, Wilson planted his feet and demanded, "How could you?"

House feigned obliviousness and merely limped between them to get behind his desk.

Cuddy sighed long and hard as she went back to contemplating her feet. "I tried to protect him." She paused to raise her eyes to the wall and added, "I'm sorry." As if it were an afterthought, she twisted at the waist to look at House where he stood tossing things into his backpack, which sat open on his chair. "I really am sorry."

House met her eyes, his gaze a bare shade too open to count as flinty. "Not as sorry as your ass will be after you drown your guilt in moose tracks."

"House, you – " Cuddy stopped herself by force, biting her lip over all of the recriminations that meant nothing at this point, then softly finished, "It wasn't my choice."

"Not your choice," Wilson mocked, storming closer. "Please. It takes a unanimous vote of the board to revoke tenure. You had to agree to it." On the other side of the desk, House threw his fuzzy ball into his pack and then put hid back to them both while he traced the grooves in his forehead with his thumbnail.

Cuddy offered Wilson a contrite look. "I did agree to it." Her voice lowered and turned husky, regretful and weary as if she had reached the end of a long and fruitless battle. "He got high and treated a patient, and now the patient's dead."

"He wasn't treating the patient!" Wilson shouted. "He was going home, and a guy with a gun _shot_ the patient." He threw a hand to one side in disbelief. "Are you honestly going to blame him for that?" He regretted his tone when he noticed House's shoulders bunch up under his shirt, but he was too wrapped up in finding a way to browbeat Cuddy into taking it all back, as if it were just a perverse practical joke. A tripwire for an already beaten man.

"The media is going to get hold of this by morning," Cuddy informed him tersely, but she still sounded as if she were justifying her actions. That, at least, mollified Wilson a little bit; it meant she had doubts, and he could work with doubts. "And when they do, donors are going to start calling. What am I supposed to tell them this time? That he's a good doctor? That won't fly anymore, Wilson. Not after this. A _child_ is dead."

Wilson inclined his upper body, angling for reasonable and persuasive. As if it were obvious – which it was, to him – he suggested, "You could try telling them the truth."

"And what _is_ the truth?" Cuddy asked reasonably. "That House got high and confronted an equally strung-out gunman?"

Wilson gritted his teeth for a moment, eyes closing of their own accord. When he opened them, he spat, "It was an accidental overdose, and _House_ had nothing to do with the kid's father deciding to go on a killing spree. In case you forgot, the asshole murdered his own wife before he came here. House didn't egg him on!."

"House turned him in," Cuddy said quietly, probably a purposeful contrast to Wilson's sharp, loud words. "And he made sure to humiliate him in the process."

"How else should he have done it?" Wilson demanded, his voice rising in pitch. "The man was making and selling crystal meth; he humiliated himself."

"Look." Cuddy pushed up off the desk and held her hands out. "I'm not arguing with you over this. It's done; either he resigns, or I have to fire him for the sake of the hospital. I gave him until Friday to decide. As for his medical license, he can file an appeal with the state medical board."

Wilson deflated with a puff of air through his nose and stepped back, shaking his head. All of his fury had suddenly disappeared, and he didn't even want it back. He knew there was no point in railing against her, but he couldn't just let this go. House may be content to crawl off without a fight; Wilson was not. Weary and disheartened, he merely said, "You know this isn't fair."

Cuddy swallowed and looked down as if she already knew that. "I'm sorry," she croaked. "It's out of my hands."

Wilson nodded, mostly to himself, and pinched the bridge of his nose. In a tired though perfectly friendly tone, he replied, "Well, in that case, fuck you too."

Cuddy appeared to accept that as her due, though Wilson thought her too gracious when she did so. He wanted her to be ashamed, to maybe sniffle a little. House was supposed to be her friend; she had always stuck up for him in the past. Amazing how one freak mistake could change so much. Cuddy lifted her eyes back to Wilson's face and offered a weak smile. "I'll write him a letter of recommendation; it's the least I can do."

"It's a booby prize, and it won't matter," Wilson muttered. "No one will risk hiring him after this, after even you bail on him."

Cuddy sighed. "James – "

"No!" Wilson whirled on her and chopped a hand through the air between them, sending Cuddy scuttling backwards a step. "This isn't just about House anymore. Lyamone is ruining both our lives, Lisa. We're living in a fucking hotel, for god's sake. It's not safe in our own home – they are _following_ us! Do you get that? This hospital is the only bit of normalcy we have left, and now you're stealing that too."

"_You_ still have a job," Cuddy reminded him. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Neither did House!" Wilson stormed around her and picked up where House had left off, shuffling through the chaos of House's desk in search of anything he might want to take home with him tonight. "_I _was in the room, Lisa. _I _know." He could see House out on the balcony, a weary profile cut against the backlit sky, painted in shades of orange by the walkway lights on the grounds below. Wilson had no idea when House had walked out, but it didn't surprise him. Lowly enough that his voice wouldn't carry through the door, Wilson said, "This is a witch hunt and you know it. The police need a scapegoat since they can't manage to catch any _actual_ drug dealers, and you're no better. We're getting a lawyer, and you're staying away from both of us." Wilson finished jabbing his points into the air with his index finger and went back to shoving House's things into his backpack.

The carpet dulled the thump of Cuddy's shoes as she drew near again. Her voice was louder with indignation and a smidge of hurt when she said, "Wait, you're not threatening to sue the hospital."

Wilson suppressed a groan by rerouting it through is nose, his upper lip curled, and then demanded, "Give me one good reason not to."

"I hired him!" Cuddy replied, morally outraged if her tone were anything to go by. "When no one else would. And I kept him on, I protected him, I _perjured myself_ for him – "

Wilson slammed the backpack down on the keyboard and spun around, a veritable vortex of unexpected fury. "Oh, good for you, playing his friend for a decade. You're all squared away now. Debt's all paid for that time your doctors sent him home as a drug seeker while his fucking leg died."

Cuddy gaped, speechless. Then she hurried to look away, stumbling a little in place as she backed down, glanced at him again, and made a less than dignified retreat from the office. After her shadow and the sound of her footsteps in the hallway died, Wilson sank down to sit on the edge of House's desk, breathing harder than he thought justifiable. He shouldn't have yelled; he certainly shouldn't have implied that House would sue. He had just needed to break her, just a little bit. Crack the administrator façade to see if maybe Lisa, their old friend, were still hiding in there somewhere. The sad part was that he couldn't tell if she was or not.

With a groan, Wilson scrubbed his palms over his face, feeling an unfamiliar coarseness against his cheeks; he had not been moisturizing as often as usual, and it showed in his dry cuticles and rough palms. His face was also greasy from the long day, stressors heaped over each other until he thought he might bow under the weight. He needed a nice hot shower to sooth his aching body, and then a long night's uninterrupted sleep for once. Next to House, in their own bed, with their own leaky bathtub fixture to measure the length of the night by.

Wilson finished gathering House's things and slung the pack over his shoulder, then locked House's hall door from the inside. When he slipped out onto the balcony, he found it empty. At first, he figured that House was sitting in the dark in Wilson's office, but that proved vacant too. Wilson grabbed his own things while he was there and locked up behind him, then padded heavily down the corridor in search of whatever bench House had elected to wait on. He sincerely hoped that Cuddy hadn't stumbled across him, but since she had gone off toward the secondary bank of elevators, Wilson thought it unlikely.

Ten minutes, four cell phone calls, a text message and two intercom pages later, Wilson still hadn't found him. And he panicked.

--TBC


	35. Chapter 35

Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I'm still responding to them, sorry it's taking me for friggin' ever. Real life is such a downer, interfering with fic and all that. Screw it. :P

Anyway, here's the next part. Warnings for the second half - **References to abuse and non-con, **pretty vague but there. It may prove disturbing for some readers. Feel free to PM me if you have concerns or want a more descriptive warning.

* * *

All Wilson could cram through his head was a mantra reminding himself that House didn't jump off the balcony, no one found him spattered on the cement patio stones below, he didn't jump, he just cut through Wilson's office and walked off somewhere…

"Look, there he is." Foreman pointed to one of the monitors that the head of PPTH security was using to play back recent camera footage.

Wilson left off wringing his hands and braced himself on the back of the chair that the guard was sitting in. Less than half an hour had passed since he had realized House was gone and paged Foreman with a 9-1-1. It was sad to think that of all the people in the hospital acquainted with Wilson, Foreman was the first one he thought of after Cuddy, who he didn't want anything to do with right now. She was standing with them anyway – it was _her_ hospital, after all. She played at being outwardly concerned, but Wilson knew her well enough to recognize impatience in the set of her hips, and the tension of her crossed arms where she clenched her elbows in her fingers. She thought this was one of House's games, or a stunt, or just him being inconsiderate.

Cuddy leaned closer to get a clear view of the monitor, and then she rolled her eyes. "He's having a smoke."

The security guard indicated the time stamp in the corner of the screen. "That was over twenty minutes ago, ma'am, and the current feeds don't show him anywhere within coverage areas on the hospital grounds. Just watch."

Wilson exchanged a worried look with Foreman before fixing his gaze back on the screen. They were only here, pouring over security footage, because Foreman had pointed out to Cuddy that he had technically not discharged House yet, and House had not signed himself out AMA; the hospital was liable for anything that happened to him on account of his late night escapade. Not even Cuddy could weasel her way out of that, nor could her lawyers. Wilson would see to that if he had to, god forbid.

"There," the guard announced, just in case anyone wasn't paying adequate attention.

Wilson bent farther over the guard's shoulder in an effort to see past the poor stop-frame quality of the footage. The board should set aside funds to upgrade the surveillance systems; they were still using antiquated equipment, like video cameras that functioned by taking still frames every three seconds. Considering the amount of money the hospital brought in, this oversight was appalling. Or perhaps that was just Wilson's ulcer talking; he couldn't really tell. Did other hospitals use this sort of system? He should find out, and then he should find a way to get back on the board even if he had to resort to bribery and blackmail to do it, and then he could fix at least this much.

On the monitor, House limped away from the hospital wall he had been leaning against to flick his cigarette off into a hedge, a series of still shots rendering him choppy. Cuddy grumbled again, something about littering in her landscaping, but Wilson ignored her. The next stills showed House lighting a second cigarette, and then shoving his left hand in his jeans pocket, his weight going to his cane and back as he situated his good leg, a prelude to standing in place for a while; Wilson had seen it often enough to know it. House cocked his hip and peered toward the parking lot, cane dangling in the crook of his right elbow as he smoked, his figure shifting by millimeters on the monitor as each new frame appeared. He was probably tapping his foot, but Wilson couldn't tell from the overhead angle, and House had his back to the camera, blocking Wilson's view of his feet. And then a still frame showed House straighten, and in the next, he had backed up a step.

"There's someone off the edge of the camera," the guard explained. He traced a finger over a shadow that didn't seem to fit in the landscape. "Doctor House appears to be talking to him, and then…watch here."

Wilson's eyes watered with the effort not to blink; he was absurdly afraid that he might miss a crucial part, even though the frames were spaced so that he could have blinked several times and missed nothing. Still, he had no idea what had happened to the second cigarette, because House wasn't holding it anymore, and for some reason, figuring out where it went had become paramount in Wilson's distracted head. On the screen, House extended his cane and jabbed it up toward the camera mounted on the wall behind him as if he were threatening his visitor with its presence.

Foreman swore. "We need to call the police."

The guard admonished, "Keep watching."

The camera footage clicked through stills of House ambling forward, glancing over his shoulder and up into the camera as if to make sure he was still in range, and then the second person came into view, just the edge of an arm and a foot. House reached out to take something from him.

"There's a tattoo on the guy's forearm," Foreman remarked.

The guard nodded. "I already saved that frame for enhancement. The police might be able to make something of it."

This whole thing felt like a bad cop show, and Wilson could only ignore it all. Anything else may have left him wrenching his hair out. Instead, he demanded, "What did he give him?" No one replied, but it didn't matter; Wilson was only paying minimal attention to the other people in the room.

House's body blocked their view of whatever he held in his hands, and a half dozen frames revealed him bowing his head over it, examining the offering with his cane hooked over his wrist. In the next several frames, House stood taller, rigid, and then both figures strode off camera in halting stills like shoddy claymation.

The security guard flipped off the monitor. "None of the other cameras picked him up after that." He directed an apologetic look at Wilson, who continued hovering over his shoulder, his unseeing eyes trapped on the dark monitor.

"Call the police," Cuddy said, her voice grim. "And get your people out searching the grounds."

"They're already looking," the guard replied, still respectful but edging on affronted. "A nurse thinks she saw them getting into a silver car. A newer model sedan. I'll get the police on a line now. Excuse me."

Wilson's knees gave out without warning; somehow, when he fell back, a chair caught him. He immediately tucked his head down between his knees and struggled to breathe. Beside him, the guard lifted a phone and electronic boops filled the air as he dialed.

A large hand fell to Wilson's shoulder, and Foreman's voice floated close above him. "Wilson. You okay?"

Wilson laced his fingers over the back of his neck and fixated on a tiny puff of black dust on the floor near the tip of his right shoe. It reminded him of the dirty dust motes that used to collect on the bristles of the fake trees glued into the old fashioned electric train table that his father used to play with in their basement. The trees had fit into the palm of Wilson's chubby little hand, prickling his skin in a thousand different places until it tickled. Out of sheer desperation, Wilson fumbled in his coat pocket for his cell phone, then punched auto-dial one. It rang and flipped to voicemail, and Wilson put the phone to his ear just to hear House's voice on the recording. _I pay by the minute for this shit, so if you leave me a stupid message, I'm billing you for it. _The line beeped and Wilson hit the end button just so that he could dial again. _I pay by the minute for this shit…_

Everything passed in a blur after that. Wilson didn't register how silent he had become until he found himself in the main lobby, slumped listlessly on a padded bench with House's backpack clutched to his stomach and Chase kneeling in front of him. "Wilson. You have to talk to me unless you want Cuddy admitting you." Chase's hand rested on Wilson's leg, more than low enough to be platonic. "Here. I want you to drink some of this." He picked a coffee cup up off the floor and tried to pry one of Wilson's hands loose to make him take it. "I didn't even drug it. Promise."

All Wilson said was, "Tell me he's coming back."

Chase looked stricken for a moment, and then he looked down. The proferred coffee cup dropped along with his gaze, and Wilson turned his head to peer blankly at the front entrance. At least Chase didn't say it, maybe for fear of lying and dishing out false hopes.

There were police in the lobby too, Officer Morrow among them. At some point, Wilson heard Cuddy using her indignant administrator tone in an effort to browbeat them, for some reason. He chose not to hear Morrow explaining that House didn't appear to have been coerced or forced into following the man, based on the surveillance footage. Or that considering the investigation, this all looked bad for House, walking off with a drug dealer. And the guy from the footage _was_ a drug dealer, according to the whispers running amuck around the lobby. Apparently, the tattoo had identified him as one of Lyamone's men, a money guy or something. Launderer? Wilson had no idea what the collectors were called.

He squeezed House's backpack tighter and felt the contents shift. He wished Foreman would come sit with him, but he hadn't seen Foreman since he left the security office. And Chase was gone again too; Wilson glanced around with little interest and spotted him near the stairwell with Cameron and Kutner. All Wilson wanted was to go home, to 221B, and have a drink. He should have listened when House said not to lose his temper. He should have dragged House out by his lapels, without their coats or personal effects, picked up his keys from the reception desk where the nice cop from this morning had dropped them off for him, and then driven House away from here. No, scratch that; he should have dragged House off days ago. Weeks, even. Far away to the Mutter Museum where House had half-promised to take him for a break from the tedium of a stressful life in New Jersey. Pickled body parts in display cases. Anywhere but here.

A tingling against his hip jolted Wilson back for a moment, but he slid off into abstractions once he realized that his phone was vibrating in his pocket. On autopilot, Wilson fished it out, juggling the backpack so that he didn't have to set it down. His eyes wandered to the display and blinked over House's name. Wilson bolted to his feet, the backpack crashing to the floor, and flipped the phone open brutally enough to risk breaking it. "House!" His voice rang foreign and shrill to his own ears, but he didn't bother concealing the outright terror. "Where are you? What the fuck happened?"

A beat of silence, and then, "_Wilson?_" As if his tone were so far off normal that House hardly recognized him.

"Yes!" Wilson jittered around to face the wall, as if anyone could have missed his behavior or the fact that he had practically shouted at the phone. "Where are you?!"

"_In a cab. Are you still at the hospital?_"

Wilson covered his eyes with his free hand and fought not to pass out from the relief and panic assaulting him in waves. "Yes. _Please_, tell me you're coming back."

"_I'll be there soon, okay? Unclench._"

"House – "

"_I took care of it._"

Wilson sucked in shallow breaths and tried to ignore the people gathering around him. Morrow told him to ask House something but Wilson waved her off with an angry swat at the air to his left. "What do you mean, you took care of it?"

"_I'll explain when I get there._"

Wilson started to yell out of fear-based fury, but House interrupted with a few grumbled words and Wilson stammered, "You…what?"

"_I'm not saying it again_," House snapped.

The phone line rustled and Wilson yelled, "Don't hang up!" He was too late, though; the line clicked and went dead and Wilson gaped at the bench in front of him, the phone still plastered to his ear. Slowly, he lowered it, then stared at the dark display.

Morrow slipped around to stand in front of him, capturing his gaze with a gesture. "What did he say?"

Wilson's eyes fell back to the phone cradled in the palm of his hand like a prickly plastic tree. "He said he loves me."

"As nice as that is, it won't help us find him. I meant the rest of the conversation. Where is he?"

Wilson lifted his eyes to glare at her. "Apparently, out doing _your_ job." His voice had taken to shaking and Wilson's eyes flit away from Morrow to find the fallen backpack. He stooped to grab it, his limbs shivering in a pale approximation of shock, and elbowed past her to get outside.

He felt like he was floating, but not in a good way; he felt like a walking Jello Jigglers commercial, his body holding its own shape and yet prone to bouts of instability. Like the air was cotton all around him and he might suffocate on it, or fall through it, and yet it was the only thing holding him up. Wilson stood on the sidewalk near the drop-off area, light-headed and paradoxically sharp, waiting. Everything seemed too bright at the edges, a world etched in crystal. He knew it was oxygen deprivation; he was hyperventilating because he couldn't control his respirations, and he didn't care.

When the cab finally pulled up, it did so far away near the bus stop. That was probably a good thing, because if it had stopped in front of him, Wilson would have dove straight in the door just to get his hands on House and prove to himself that he was really there. As it was, Wilson didn't even notice until the cab was gone and House was standing next to him. "Hey."

Wilson glanced to his right, swallowed, and then lunged, House's backpack falling forgotten to the sidewalk.

House staggered with a surprised grunt, and then somehow righted them both with Wilson hanging off of him. "Okay," House said, his voice a soothing rumble in his chest. He fumbled around the arms that Wilson had locked in a vice around his neck and ribcage, and sort of petted Wilson's back with one hand. The other gripped the head of his cane hard to keep them both vertical. "Wilson, it's okay." They swayed a little. If asked, House would probably blame his leg for it.

Wilson ignored the words and clutched him harder, digging his neatly trimmed fingernails into House's shoulder blades, still slightly in shock and dry-eyed, and too relieved to really _be_ relieved, if that made any sense. It didn't even matter that House wasn't returning much of the affection, more just standing there and letting Wilson give serious thought to squeezing the life out of him like a caricature straight out of John Steinbeck's head.

"Wilson?"

"You son of a bitch. I thought you were dead."

"I wasn't even gone that long." House sounded contrite, at least, even if he didn't apologize.

"You were gone two hours!" But even as he yelled right in House's ear and felt him flinch, Wilson refused to let go of him. "With a drug dealer, you - you - _jerk_!"

"Okay." House stopped stroking his back and moved to pry one of Wilson's arms off. "We're making a scene."

"That's what you get, asshole."

Eventually, Wilson did calm down enough to release him, and the cops herded them both back inside where House demanded hot coffee and Wilson wouldn't even let him go to the restroom alone. It took far too long to sort things out with the police, mainly because House refused to say a damn thing to them without a lawyer, and then he refused to call a lawyer in the middle of the night because that was just inconsiderate, waking somebody up like that. The police couldn't charge him with anything anyway, not yet, and House plainly invited them to continue investigating him prior to fucking off. Finally, the hubbub died down well past one in the morning. The police cleared out after issuing warnings to House to stay in town, and a number of other cliches that concealed their hostility for someone who appeared to have gone off to have dealings with a drug dealer, thereby wasting their time. The gawking staff members meandered away once the excitement had died down, leaving Wilson standing next to the reception counter where House had hoisted himself up to sit. Chase had perched himself nearby as well but Foreman had disappeared yet again. The rest of the lobby loomed large, dim and empty, save for echoes.

After seeing the last of the officers out, Cuddy walked back to them, careful in her heels on no-doubt sore feet, and regarded House with tired annoyance. "You can't just pretend nothing happened."

House merely peered back, cold and wary. "The cops can figure it out on their own, and I don't need the lot of you knowing my business."

"Business?" Cuddy echoed in disbelief. "House, you had better not – "

"What is it with you?" House cut in. "You should go cozy up with the cops if you really think I'm involved in that shit."

Wilson glanced over at House and then down again, his fingers twisting the seams inside his pants pockets. Since the scene he had made on the sidewalk, all but mauling House with his tangible relief, they had maintained a painful buffer zone of at least six inches from each other. It made Wilson twitch even though he wasn't normally a clingy person. It was just that normally, even though neither of them were very tactile, they brushed shoulders or stood closer. They _touched_ all the time, actually, since way before the sex had started. It held little meaning beyond the fact that they walked or stood or sat too near to each other, but it had always been there. A brush of arms here, tap of knees there. Things they didn't even consciously notice because it happened so often that they were inured to it. Being separate yet within sight like this hurt.

Cuddy tilted her head, that stern administrator face seeping out of her very pores like a warning. As if she had that power over House anymore.

House shook his head, irritated, and looked away. "I paid them off, okay?" He fidgeted with his cane, swishing it back and forth where it dangled down between his legs, and then explained, "I got a hundred fifty thousand dollar advance from Harvard Med when they commissioned the book. That plus my savings…" He shrugged, made a point of looking toward but not _at_ Wilson, and summed up, "A little over two hundred grand total. It's over; they'll go away now."

"But…" Wilson tried to make sense of that in his head. It wasn't House's debt. "Why? Why would you do that?"

This time, House did look at Wilson, but only at his leg. "I figured I could make it all better."

Wilson absorbed that for a moment and then swallowed as he looked away. He remembered that conversation in House's trashed apartment, just a week ago. _What, you want me to make it all better or something? _"That's not the whole reason, is it?"

"It's the important part, Wilson. Just shut up already."

No one had anything to say after that. House slipped down from the counter in a fairly coordinated mess, but he nearly ended up on the floor, regardless. After he hobbled off to the bathroom, moving more stiffly than normal due to the late hour, Foreman appeared out of nowhere to corner Wilson where he waited near the door. He pressed a prescription bag into Wilson's hand and told him that the 'other' test results would be in tomorrow; he would call Wilson as soon as he got them. Then he listed the medications in the bag, all for House: a refill on the Depakote at a slightly higher dosage, plus gabapentin, both to handle the seizures. Wilson asked about the gabapentin since House had seemed against taking it again due to the vertigo, but Foreman confessed to being leary of trying something like Topamax, which tended to cause weight loss. House was at a good weight for once, probably thanks to the Depakote's side effects over the course of the past eight months, and Wilson agreed that it wouldn't make sense to jeopardize that. Topamax also tended to trigger short term memory problems and mental 'fuzz,' which would merely result in House refusing to take the pills and eschewing treatment altogether.

The script bag also contained three prefilled syringes of lorazepam, just in case House had another violent flashback or generalized seizure. Lastly, Foreman had prescribed a refill of Warfarin, which House still took to prevent future blood clots, and he told Wilson to throw out whatever Amitriptyline was left. With the Depakote and gabapentin controlling the seizures, Foreman figured that the lingering anxiety and depression would go away too, either because the seizures were causing those issues or because Depakote would treat it; it didn't matter which.

Foreman also mentioned that he thought House may have been susceptible to seizure disorders before now, just based on his personality quirks and the odd behavior he had exhibited over the years. TLE could be a strange disease, and often missed because of the elusive nature of the seizures; often, they passed completely without notice. Foreman wanted to see House again within a few days to assess the effectiveness of the treatment, and he passed on a message from Ngyen that House should get his sorry ass in there to talk about alternative pain therapies, since Foreman insisted he should discontinue the Vicodin to avoid lowering his seizure threshold any farther.

House padded out of the bathroom at that point, trailed by Chase, which seemed to piss House off. Wilson heard him snap that he didn't need a babysitter, and then he took in Wilson's slightly dazed stance, a leftover from the evening's unexpected events. "All those pills for me?"

Wilson merely nodded, bid Chase and Foreman goodnight, and held House's backpack out to him. A sour look crossed House's face as he eyed the prescription bag, but he merely took his pack without a word and stumped away. Wilson didn't hold the door for him as they exited because he didn't know if that would be appreciated or not, even though they often alternated holding doors for each other. But if House's leg were bothering him, he would read the kindness as pity, rather than gentlemanliness.

The two of them slogged their way through the dark to find Wilson's car where the officer from that morning had parked it in the guest lot, and then they climbed inside, exhausted. Wilson worked the keys into the ignition but slumped back without turning the car on to ask, "What really happened?"

House kept his face angled away, though Wilson swore that House was looking at him in the reflection on the windshield. With a sigh, House reached into his coat to draw something from his blazer pocket, and then he passed Wilson an envelope.

Wilson took it, puzzled, and folded back the flap to find a photograph of himself on the oncology floor, filling out a chart. Behind that was another photo, Wilson in the cafeteria with a sliver of House's arm in the edge of the frame. Then one of Wilson leaving his office, Wilson in the parking lot that weekend, Wilson entering the hotel in House's shadow… Ten photos in all. He couldn't seem to look away from the photo of himself standing in line at the coffee cart with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, worrying over his own private hell. That one had been taken just that morning before House regained consciousness; Wilson still had on the same clothes. In the surveillance footage, the perp had handed House something. This.

Beside him, House expelled a soft breath, fogging the window in an irregular oval near his lips. "All they wanted was money, Wilson. It wasn't worth it."

"They…" Wilson croaked to a halt, cleared his throat, and then finished, "They threatened you?" He looked up to see if he could read anything in House's carefully constructed demeanor.

"No, moron." House's voice held no venom, despite his words; merely an abundance of exhaustion. "I'm only in, like, two of those."

"Oh." Wilson's eyes fell back to the envelope and let his fingers linger over the edges of the photos. "What happened to the real money, though? Theirs?"

House shrugged. "I think the mom cleaned it out to pay for her kid's treatment. Who knows? The police will check the bank and billing records eventually."

"You didn't have to pay this."

"Yeah, Wilson. I did."

Wilson felt like he had swallowed a brick. Somehow, House risking his life at Wilson's request hadn't driven home the notion that House really did care about him, that he would do close to anything for him. House paying two hundred thousand dollars to keep him safe, because of an idle threat… That did. Yeah, House took care of it. _It_ being Wilson. "You meant it."

House lifted his head, gaze still directed out the passenger window, and then he shifted to look at Wilson.

"What you said on the phone," Wilson clarified. "You meant it."

House's gaze drifted down to Wilson's hands and then away out the windshield. Gruff and perhaps annoyed that Wilson had brought it up, House tersely replied, "I always meant it." Then he paused to thump his cane against the floor mats and groused, "Every time I said it. You're a cynical fucking bastard if you couldn't see that."

"I didn't…realize," Wilson admitted.

"That's because you say it too often."

Yeah, Wilson thought; after a while, those three words tend to wear out. He took one last look at the photos and then stuffed them back into the envelope, swallowing thickly. "House, I don't know if I can do this."

That got House's attention. All of it. He threw a startled look out the windshield and then twisted to see Wilson better, his face a study in inscrutability, eyes hooded.

"There's no breaking point with you," Wilson said. "No line to cross."

House moved one shoulder, rolling his head away in the process to keep Wilson from reading anything into his expression.

"You really would have given that kid up to save me."

House shrugged, uneasiness written into the outline of his profile against the window. "It's sorta moot now. Besides, you didn't let me, remember?"

Wilson looked down at the envelope yet again, the edges worried and soft around the outline of the photographs. "I have limits." He didn't need to mention that Tritter had found one of them once, and that someday someone else might find another to drive a wedge between them.

"I know," House replied. "And I'm starving. Find a Denny's or an IHOP, or something." He tapped the underside of the dashboard with his foot. "You're buying cuz, you know... I'm broke for real now."

"House, you don't – "

"I need you." House cringed over the tail end of his pronouncement, and then glanced sheepishly over at Wilson as if to make sure that the sappiness hadn't made him nauseous. "Half the time, I only know I'm doing the right thing because it's what you told me to do, Wilson. _That's_ my limit. You do not owe me. I didn't do this to earn brownie points with you; I did it because I'm selfish and I don't share my toys, and if a wire transfer is all it takes to keep you here, in one piece, then - " House broke off, scrunched his face up in annoyance, then snapped, "Just stop it, okay? I have no money, no job, no health insurance as of Friday, the police are investigating me, I'm tired, my leg hurts, and I want pancakes. So just shut up and drive."

Wilson blinked at him, then stretched his neck up to flex his jaw. "Fuck IHOP. _I'm_ cooking you pancakes."

House narrowed his eyes. "On what, a hot plate?"

"Nope." Wilson grinned even though he still felt sort of sick. "I have a surprise for you." He toed the brake and switched on the ignition before glancing over at House.

House grinned back in a similar fashion. "Cool."

Wilson shifted into reverse but didn't let up on the brake right away. "And, House?"

A long-suffering groan rolled through the car. "Now what?"

"Next time you disappear on me like that, leave a post-it."

* * *

As Wilson drove, a cold sort of heaviness seemed to seep through the car, coating it in silence. House wasn't brooding, per se, but he certainly wasn't getting any happier. He didn't even pester Wilson to tell him what the surprise was, though that fact didn't hit Wilson until after they had stopped at a twenty-four market and House failed to make fun of the poofy MC Hammer pants sported by a nearby bum like a bad acid trip back to the early nineties. _Looks like the recession hit Ringling Bros. Must be a shame to have to turn away a perfectly good freak._ Wilson could practically feel reality crashing down around them. The full impact of what House had done had not hit either of them yet.

When they finally arrived at 221B, Wilson kept a surreptitious eye on House while gathering the fresh groceries from the back seat; anything left in House's fridge, aside from condiments, would have to be thrown out. When House didn't even unbuckle his seatbelt, Wilson poked his head in the open back door and contemplated the thinning patch at the crown of House's head. A faint trace of stubble blurred the edge of House's face in rear profile, dusted by the glow of a streetlight. "Hey. You staying out here all night?"

"Maybe."

Wilson's brow crinkled. "House, come inside."

House ducked his head, hiding under the pretense of tapping the rubber tip of his cane against the underside of the dash. "In a minute."

Wilson lifted his eyes to watch over the roof of the Volvo as another car passed them by. Then he shut the back car door and yanked House's open. "Look, if you want me to leave you alone for a little while, then fine. But not out here. Just…come in." Behind a locked and alarmed door, Wilson added mentally. "Please."

A mere handful of heartbeats passed in relative silence, punctuated by cars passing out on the main road and House's sneaker thumping the door frame. Then House stuck his cane out of the car and jabbed it into the pavement close enough to Wilson's foot that Wilson danced out of the way. House hauled himself out of the car with help from the car door, then slammed it shut and limped across the sidewalk.

Wilson trailed him uneasily inside, unable to prevent himself from wondering if House's apparent anger came from regret over what had transpired that night. He had paid those men off on a whim; there had been no thought or reconsideration. In retrospect, House must have been thinking the same things that Wilson had been thinking throughout the entire the car ride home. They could have told the police about the threat, they could have hired a bodyguard, they could have left town, they could have bought guns and hunkered down in the hotel room and just shot anyone who came near. So many other options that involved less expense, even if they carried an implicit threat of danger. Was an illusion of safety worth two hundred grand? A few hours ago, yes, it had been. House hadn't been able to take that risk with him.

Once Wilson unlocked the apartment door with the new set of keys sent to his office by courier that afternoon, he fairly dropped all the groceries to fumble at the freshly installed keypad inside the door. No teasing met his ears about the overkill of buying a security system for an old one bedroom apartment, so Wilson punched in the disarm code in peace. That done, he turned around to survey the place in the light of the single floor lamp that House had switched on near the piano.

It looked good. Neat and tidy, smelling of disinfectant and dust polish, books, and the underlying pervasive hint of House. The cleaners had done their best to put the place back together. The furniture was in the right places, but little things had inevitably been moved. Their positions on the floor after the break-in would not have hinted at their rightful places. Wilson smiled, though, to find a bill organizer on House's desk. _Wilson's_ bill organizer, which he distinctly remembered bringing over after separating from Julie. House must have been appalled by it's presence in his disordered domain and stashed it someplace dark. Perhaps it had intruded on House's fen shui, or upset his third chakra or something.

"It's all wrong," House said. He wandered up to the piano and rested a hand on its lacquered surface. Then he removed it and studied the print left behind before he shuffled off toward the couch. He picked up a wooden box along the way and deposited it on the end table, where it belonged. After that, he paused to rake his eyes over the bookshelves, which appeared to be well ordered by genre, but Wilson already knew that House had arranged those books in a meticulous fashion understood only by him. It would have to be redone.

"Well, I know it's not perfect," Wilson began defensively. He figured that he should feel affronted over House's way of making favors seem like impositions, something Wilson often did feel, but he only felt inadequate, as if he couldn't even make _this_ place comfortable for House, and that felt like a failure to care enough.

House dropped a book he had slid free and watched it fall aflutter on the floor. Then he seemed to register Wilson's tone, and he turned to face him, lowering his eyes almost immediately after locking onto Wilson. "No, I mean, it just isn't…um. It's good. Nice of you."

Wilson frowned and looked down, feeling faintly sick, his hands perched loosely on his hips. "Don't do that."

"But it is." House sounded nervous, as if he weren't sure about how to say that, only that he needed to. "You didn't have to do this."

"We have time to rearrange everything," Wilson put in. He couldn't seem to stop searching for appeasements, all of a sudden. "Get it back to the way it was."

"Wilson, it's fine." Sharper now. "Better than a hotel any day."

Wilson studied him for a second, his own mouth downturned at the edges. He felt stupid all of a sudden, for doing this. He had been on the verge of insisting that they stay the night somewhere proven unsafe, security system or not. If circumstances hadn't played out as they had, this place would have been a voluntary prison. And House wasn't pointing that out to him. House _always_ pointed his own idiocy out to him.

"I'm gonna take a shower."

"Okay," Wilson replied. He watched House amble away down the hallway, then winced when an innocent knick knack of some sort loudly became a casualty on the bathroom floor. It must not have belonged in there.

Wilson busied himself in the kitchen, first clearing the refrigerator of any lingering foodstuffs, and then with mixing batter. Truth be told, he wasn't hungry anymore, and every time he opened a drawer or cupboard in search of a cooking utensil, it wasn't there at hand, the way he had left it a week ago. The whole apartment seemed comfortable on the surface, familiar, but underneath it was all wrong, just as House had stated. And that was disconcerting, because if Wilson didn't feel at home in 221B, where else was there?

With the stove on and a pan heating in preparation for melting a pad of butter, it occurred to Wilson that House had been in the shower for over half an hour now. It wasn't unusual for him to spend protracted periods in the bathroom, but if he did, it was to take a bath. His leg couldn't handle standing still for that long with little to brace himself against the slippery tub except the water pipes and the curtain rod. Wilson could still hear the shower running, though, and he wondered how long it would take for the spray to run cold. There were also no irregular splashes and slaps of water to betray the activity of someone actively washing.

Wilson padded softly down the hall, his shoes discarded in the kitchen, and peered through the cracked-open bathroom door. He couldn't see House's shadow through the thin shower curtain, but he also couldn't see the whole tub from where he stood. The absence concerned Wilson enough to push the door open farther with one finger and stick his head in.

There was a part in the curtain, just a sliver between the edge of the plastic and the tile shower wall. Wilson approached it and looked down, craning his neck to see through into the shower. House sat slumped on his ass in the bottom of the tub, his right leg straight out and his left knee raised. He had propped his right elbow on the edge of the tub against the wall, forehead resting on his fisted hand, and then twisted to rest his left hand over his damaged thigh. The long slope of his back faced Wilson, vertebrae knobbed in a straight line down the middle. House breathed slowly, deep breaths that expanded his ribs with each inhale. He didn't appear to be distressed, merely worn out. Wilson could well imagine him telling himself to just keep breathing; his entire body practically screamed of it, that it was all he could do right now. He looked…small.

Wilson backed out of the bathroom on stealthy feet, leaving the door as it was because he didn't want a creak alerting House to his presence. Every nerve in Wilson's body itched to go back in, turn off the water, and gather House up into a little ball in his lap. Not only would that be difficult, seeing as how House was not by any means _little_, but Wilson would probably lose a limb for his troubles. If House had wanted an audience, he would have stayed in the living room, or dragged Wilson into the shower with him. House may have been improving in the whole affectionate and comforting touch department, but he was like a rehabilitated stray dog: even if its temperament improved, you still didn't leave it alone in a room with a child. House still couldn't abide being vulnerable if he could help it.

A few minutes later, the water shut off with a rattle of pipes, and Wilson tuned an ear to the sound of House hauling himself out of the tub. The expected grumbling was absent, but Wilson heard enough stomping and slamming to make up for it. When the muffled thumps and cane-falls passed into the bedroom, Wilson set down the fork he had been obsessively whipping in the bowl of pancake batter, turned off the stove without cooking anything, and padded down the hall. He arrived at the bedroom door in time to watch House upend the soft suitcase of their dirty laundry from the hotel stay, scattering its contents all over the floor. Then House shifted the pile around with one foot and his cane, walking over it and spreading it out according to some private design. Wilson watched in silence as House turned around to poke his cane at a stack of magazines and journals on the floor near the closet door, then shove some of them at random so that they made a mess in front of the dresser. House was in the process of kicking a few random objects underneath the bed when he spotted Wilson, and then he scowled as he returned to his work.

"House?"

"It's too perfect in here. I can't sleep in perfect."

"Okay." Wilson rubbed absently at the back of his neck as House tore a comforter off the bed – albeit one that House never used; the cleaners must have found it in the bottom of the linen closet. House's well worn bedspread was folded on the floor with their luggage from the hotel. The comforter found a home in the corner that House mashed it into, and then he seized the bedspread and fluffed it into a ball on the bed so that it looked recently slept in. It took Wilson a second to understand that House was just trying to make the room look like it normally did: lived in. But when House started grabbing things that didn't belong in the bedroom and flinging them out into the hall –books, trinkets, game cartridges, even shoes – Wilson reached out to stop him.

"It looks like a god damn Good Housekeeping magazine," House spat, wrenching his arm from Wilson's grip. "Since when do I live in a display room? And where's my rug?" House stabbed his cane into the floorboards next to his side of the bed, where he used to have a throw rug.

"They put it out in the hall, House. You had to walk on it to get in here."

House shouldered Wilson aside and stormed out into the hall to see for himself, then grabbed the edge of the rug and dragged it back in with him.

Wilson watched helplessly from the foot of the bed as House threw it down, flopping it up at the edges, and then tried to straighten it out without bending down again. The curses he muttered under his breath when that didn't work made Wilson cringe lightly and avert his eyes, one hand braced on his hip while the other weakly massaged his neck. "House…"

"I can't find my charger. It was right there, and now it's not." House pointed at the wall socket next to the nightstand where his iPod charger was supposed to sit, perpetually plugged in and waiting.

"Okay," Wilson soothed. "I can see you're freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out – I want my fucking charger!" Of course, then second he realized that he _was_ sort of losing it a little, House balked, dropped whatever he was holding, and immediately turned to face the bed. Wilson watched him hesitate, free hand fidgeting randomly at his side, and then he mechanically went through the motions of going to bed. Pull back the covers, situate a pillow, hook the cane over a bedpost, climb in. He glanced over his shoulder to the place on the nightstand where his Vicodin used to lie, then at the ceiling, and finally settled on his left side, his back to Wilson, unnaturally still.

Wilson approached with care and laid a hand over House's bony shoulder, which stuck up due to the manner in which he had huddled down. House stiffened under his hand, but didn't move as Wilson reminded him, "You didn't take all of your meds yet."

"I know, Wilson. Just go away, please."

Wilson let his hand slip from House's shoulder and relocated it to the back of his own neck. "I'll bring them to you." Then he padded from the room before he did something stupid, like react to the tiny break in House's voice when he had said _please_, like a scratchy old phonograph churning out the hollow strains of a Chopin piece that could barely be heard above the crackles and spits.

He gave House plenty of time to compose himself by tending to the mess he had made in the kitchen. The batter would keep overnight, so Wilson Saran-wrapped it prior to thrusting it blindly into the fridge. He had to scour the pan he had been heating because the butter had scorched in the bottom of it, which took another few minutes. When he finally got around to shutting off lights on his way to the hall, he wasn't sure how he felt about everything that had transpired that night. He knew that House was out of sorts because his home didn't feel like home anymore, and it was all wrong, and strange people had been in here, pawing at his stuff. Even with the security system in place, Wilson knew that House couldn't feel safe here right now.

Wilson felt out of place too, like something was off, just slightly skewed, and it was. The place was familiar, but nothing was where it belonged. It was just abnormal enough to raise hairs on Wilson's arms. The riotous mess they had walked in on before had felt more normal than this flimsy illusion that everything was peachy keen again. Wilson hadn't realized how terribly he wanted his old screwed-up life back until he stood in House's living room, staring around and cataloguing everything that wasn't exactly where it should be, all the way down to the pile of sheet music that wasn't strewn haphazardly on the floor behind the piano. He could well understand House's impulse to untidy the bedroom; Wilson experienced a similar urge to go fish everything out of the piano bench and fan it out on the floor.

By the time Wilson crept back to the bedroom, House had coiled himself around a lump of pillows and blankets in the center of the bed that roughly conformed to the shape of a second person. Wilson chose to overlook it as he rummaged through the dresser in search of his own matched pajama sets, then took one to the bathroom and readied himself for bed. He doled out House's new medications last, adding a Vicodin to the mix because he didn't think House had taken one in a while, and then scooped the pills into a Dixie cup, which he brought back to House.

"Here." Wilson held the cup in front of House's nose, mildly disconcerted by the blank stare he got in return. "House, you need to take your meds." House blinked again at the cup before he took it. Wilson passed him some water as well, waited until House had swallowed everything, and then threw the paper cups into the trash can on his own side. After switching off the light, Wilson poked House's arm and gestured to the other half of the bed. "Scoot over."

House looked at him and deliberately settled in right where he was, though it wasn't snark or habitual obstinance that painted his features. Wilson didn't actually know _what_ that was.

Wilson frowned. "House, move."

"Sleep on the couch."

"What? Why?" Wilson reached out to touch House's cheek, but House ducked into the pillow to evade him. He barely suppressed the urge to recoil at the rejection and demanded, "What did I do?"

"Nothing. I just need you to go."

Wilson stared at him for a second. "No."

House glared and refused to make room for him, so Wilson rounded the bed and climbed in behind him. House must have thought he was leaving at first, because he jumped when the bed dipped, and then tried to wriggle away from the arm that Wilson had already draped over his waist. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to bed," Wilson replied as if this should have been self evident.

House twisted in a vain bid to get Wilson off of him. "I thought I told you to sleep on the couch."

"And I told you no."

"Let go of me!"

"No." Wilson spooned up to him and cinched his arm tighter over House's waist.

House contorted himself to shove at Wilson, to no avail, so he resorted to words instead. "I just dropped two hundred grand on your sorry ass – you think I want you anywhere near me? I have _nothing_ thanks to you!"

Wilson winced, but he knew that for the meaningless barb that it was. Softly, he replied, "You don't have 'nothing,' House."

Impotent fury had never gone well with House's features. "I don't _want _you here!"

"I just paid to have a cadre of maids make this place livable again. I'm staying." Wilson made himself dead weight to prove this assertion.

That just made House try to push him off the mattress again. "I want you to leave."

"Not happening." Wilson scooted closer when House rolled away into the pile of blankets.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Get out!"

With perfect calm, Wilson simply replied, "No."

An indeterminate sound ripped itself from House's throat, and then he started fighting for real. Wilson held on and burrowed in against House's back as House twisted and shoved, and then finally pried at Wilson's arm and tried to kick at Wilson's legs. He was in a bad position for it, not to mention lame in one leg, and he couldn't reach enough of Wilson to properly hurt him. The whole thing came off as more of a tantrum than anything else, and Wilson found himself speaking softly to calm House down. To his surprise, it worked, though not as he had intended. House left off with a glancing blow to Wilson's shin, threw himself forward to claw at the pillows he had previously been wrapped around, and then stilled abruptly, breathing hard. Wilson calmly fit himself back around House's shivering form, pulling House back against him, and sighed in what he hoped sounded like contentment. At the sound, House went rigid for a moment and then tucked himself deeper into the pillows, but at least he didn't try to pull away again.

Blandly, Wilson inquired, "Are you done?" He didn't realize what all the shivering and the erratic breathing meant until House's ribcage hitched under his arm. Wilson opened his eyes all the way, instantly alert, and tightened his grip. "House?"

"Why can't you go away?"

Alarmed, Wilson struggled up on an elbow to lean over House in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his face. "You know why. Talk to me."

"I said no!"

Wilson ignored that and tried to mold himself closer. He didn't think that was possible, but he tried anyway. House's stomach muscles jumped and clenched under Wilson's hand. "House, please." He paused, then added weakly, his tone low, "You can say anything; I won't get mad."

House vigorously shook his head, his face stuffed into a pillow.

"Do you regret it?" Wilson asked, somewhat desperate and terrified of the possibility that House might resent him for the payoff, though Wilson had had nothing to do with it, and he wouldn't have approved of it if he'd known beforehand. Still, the fact that House had done it shone as proof of how invested he had become in Wilson, and _that_ was easily worth two hundred grand. "I'll pay you back, if that's it. I don't mind. You shouldn't have had to do it in the first place."

"No!" House yelled, but the pillow stifled most of it. "I don't want your fucking money."

"Then _what_?" Wilson demanded. He inched forward when he realized that House had gained a miniscule distance. "House, _please_. You're upset. I need to know why."

"No." House curled over his pillow and refused to loosen up, like a sun-dried pill bug stuck crisp and dead in a window. "Sleep on the couch," he begged, his voice strung out and small somehow, strangled.

Wilson rested his forehead against the back of House's neck, between his hairline and the line of his shoulders, then shook it, eyes slipping closed of their own accord. He knew House was desperate to get rid of him; he could only imagine that House wanted him to go so that he wouldn't be tempted to say anything damning – anything sincere. Wilson couldn't tell if House were actually crying or not, but the stuttering muscles beneath his hand hinted at choking up. He made a point of spreading his fingers out across House's abdomen, silent acknowledgment of unwanted emotions, and murmured, "I'm not leaving."

House merely kept on breathing in fits and starts, catching and holding air in his lungs only to have it explode from him, followed by a gasp or a hard swallow. Wilson stroked his fingers up and down House's stomach, resting his hand over House's chest at random intervals, waiting and breathing steadily in his own turn. It sounded like House was crying, but when Wilson snuck a glance, he could see no tear tracks shining in the ambient light from the hall. Wilson didn't know of anyone else who could do that, cry without shedding a tear. It was surreal, and it broke his heart a little bit. Somewhere in the farthest corners of his mind, Wilson conjured an approximation of John House scornfully declaring that he would _give_ House something to cry about.

Eventually, House quieted, slowly sinking into the mattress with Wilson safe at his back. His breathing evened out for the most part, though it was still fraught with the occasional hitch, and House would lick his lips afterward as if that helped. Wilson had moved on to stroking the side of House's face, smoothing the hair at his temples and running over the stubble lining his jaw, his arm a solid weight crooked over House's. House didn't react much to this, and Wilson could see his eyelashes move as he blinked at intervals too long to indicate actual relaxation, or normal awareness.

Wilson leaned in and pressed his lips behind House's ear, an easy enough spot to reach. "Better?"

A fine tension coursed through House's body, disguised as a shiver. "I wasn't thinking."

"You're not supposed to think in a situation like that. Not with your head, anyway."

"I blew it."

"It's not like you dropped it all on a pony," Wilson replied, a hint of wry sarcasm encroaching on his speech. "You think I'm not flattered? Grateful?"

"It was stupid. They couldn't get you, not right away. You were safe in the hospital."

Ah. Reason sets in, at long last. Stupid thing, that. Wilson often wondered how much guilt House bore out of attacks of reason.

"I should've gone back inside. We shoulda called the police."

Perhaps so, Wilson thought. But what he said aloud was, "You're the only person I know who would have done this for me, House." Wilson had no idea what they would do now. He had three alimony payments to keep up on; he'd been doing alright for a while since he made good money, but he wasn't rich. Thrift had served him for a long time now. He would have to get rid of Amber's apartment, let the lease expire, move in here and encroach properly on House's space. That might not work; they were still oil and water on so many issues, but he wouldn't let House go bankrupt for acting from his heart. He wouldn't let him lose whatever else he had left now. "Let it go. It's only money."

House snuffed, coughed unexpectedly, and then angled his face into the crook of his arm. Wilson watched creases stretch across House's temple and realized that House had squeezed his eyes shut. Slightly muffled but still clear, House said, "They kept saying what they would do to you. They knew I didn't take their money, but I got Lyamone arrested, so it was my fault, and they kept…describing…"

"Okay." Wilson stopped him by returning his arm to House's waist and squeezing. "You don't have to justify it to me."

House's voice dried up into a thin mewl, and then burst out on the tail end of a sob. "They didn't wanna kill you; they said they'd just take you someplace and make you get on your knees and ask for it – "

"House, it's okay. That won't happen." Wilson held him tighter, pressed up all along the rounded line of House's body.

But House either couldn't, or wouldn't stop now that he'd started talking. "They knew about us. They heard nurses talking. They said they'd – "

Just to drown out the rest of the sentence, Wilson insisted, "You don't have to tell me."

"Said you were pretty enough," House mumbled. "They asked if I'd still want you after." Then his voice squeaked into a higher register as he forced himself to keep speaking. "Not you. Wilson, I couldn't let them."

"You didn't," Wilson reminded him. On the outside, he marveled at how staid he sounded, but inside, he was horrified to imagine what House must have been thinking to hear those threats. "House, I'm fine. You're fine, everything's fine."

Even House's breath had grown thick by then, probably thanks to mucous building in the back of his throat, but he managed to choke out, "Can't let you to know what that's like." And then he finally dissolved completely.

It took about thirty second for Wilson's mind, preoccupied with cooing empty words into House's ear, to completely unravel all of the subtle undertones to that final pronouncement. He stopped breathing for a second when he realized what House had actually told him, and then he ducked his nose into the back of House's shoulder, inhaling warm cotton, his eyes open and staring. "Because you _do _know?"

House wasn't crying so much as just letting his eyes water and his nose run into a pillow, but Wilson could still feel the heat radiate off of him.

"Okay," Wilson breathed, and then he hooked his chin over House's shoulder and tried to smother him. "Okay, it's okay." It's not okay. Emphatically not. "Nothing happened to me. I'm fine. _You're_ fine too." He pressed his lips to House's jugular and kept offering banal comforts.

House kept on insisting that he couldn't let that happen to Wilson, not Wilson, not him, because he was good and he didn't deserve it, and then House suddenly started apologizing for it.

"No," Wilson hissed. "Don't say you're sorry. Don't. You didn't do anything wrong."

Some sort of denial rushed from House's mouth, but he buried it in the bedding and started talking into the bunched bedspread, his words too garbled for Wilson to understand them. Then that degenerated into a harsh, unintelligible litany of noise, interspersed with piteous hiccups in lieu of breathing.

Wilson gathered stray bits of House to his chest and held on as if he could make things better by sheer force, could keep House from splintering into a dozen pieces. He just kept repeating that it was okay, that House was okay, Wilson was okay, everything was okay when it wasn't, and House had fallen as near to hysterical as Wilson had ever seen him. It scared the shit out of him, the force with which House was capable of breaking, when he got that far. Every time Wilson had seen him out of sorts – stressed or in pain or worried, angry, cornered, staring rehab and Tritter down the throat, even an hour before chugging bourbon laced with a full bottle of oxy – he had never understood the restraint that House exercised. When House lost his temper, he probably didn't actually lose it all the way. Even after the infarction, chewing Stacy out or screaming from the pain, the uncontrollable agony-induced tears, the fear, Wilson realized that House had never lost control. In all of House's adult life, he had probably refrained from ever opening up enough to risk it, because if he did it once, he might do it again, and then things like this would come out and House wouldn't be able to stop.

Half of Wilson wanted to shush House, but the other half didn't dare. If he stifled House now, House might stay that way, locked in a tiny corner of his own head, and all Wilson would see is that old shuttered House who never revealed anything beyond a smirk and a sad, mysterious frown. The lonely little scared House who snapped and bit to keep people far enough away that they'd never guess at how afraid he really was, how easily they could tear him down.

It was all over in a matter of perhaps a minute. House latched onto his pile of pillows and stilled his trembling with a monumentous effort, his respirations evening out a bare moment after. Wilson blinked at the long body furled up in front of him, House's head tucked into the crook of Wilson's elbow, uncannily quiet. For a moment, he actually thought that House had passed out just from the stress of shedding a few tears, but no; when Wilson tried to elbow House's head up for a look, a flash of glittery azure accosted Wilson before House shifted to better work his nose into the folds of bedding. House had merely stopped himself cold.

This was a more disturbing development in Wilson's mind than the breakdown itself. The only evidence of House's former distress was the very slight elevation of his pulse rate, thumping in his carotid under Wilson's cheek. How could a person just cease to emote like that, just shut down as if they had a kill switch? It wasn't normal, but then again, so few things about House were.

"Hey." Wilson thumbed at the damp spots under House's right eye and then craned his neck down to put their mouths within reach. That was as far as he went, and even then, he only did it for the vantage point, hoping that House would look at him. He didn't, though; House blinked in that slow, distracted manner particular to cats and people stoned on good weed, eyes open and unseeing, focused far away. "House."

"No." Just one word, flat and forbidding, and completely without dimension.

"Okay," Wilson replied. "That's fine." He had no idea what he was agreeing to, but he would have said anything at this point to wipe that hollow look off of House's face.

House fell four shades short of snark, or even of a petulant whine, when he complained, "Will you go away now?"

"Uhhh…no. No way in hell."

"You have issues."

"Nice transference. Learn that on your psych rotation?"

If House found their usual form of banter appealing, strained as it was, he didn't show it. He didn't show anything, really. "Let go now?"

Wilson considered that request a tad more carefully. "Give me a reason." If the embrace made House uncomfortable, made him want to squirm inside his own skin, he would back off without comment. But if that were the case, he wanted House to admit it. Was that self-serving?

"You're crushing my leg."

"Oh." Wilson balked, peered down their bodies to where he had intertwined his legs with House's at some point to prevent him from kicking Wilson more, and then gingerly went about extracting himself.

As soon as he was able, House half-rolled, half-scrabbled over the twisted mass of bedding he had been wrapped around, and shoved it against Wilson to keep him on the other side of the bed, trapped where House usually slept.

Wilson stretched his neck up to peek over the mound of blankets and pillows, his heart fracturing at the edges as he watched House curl into himself and hug his own body, lying mostly on his stomach with his face planted in the mattress like a freezing little boy forced to sleep on frosted ground. "House?"

"No touching."

A single tear escaped as Wilson swallowed past the golf ball lodged in his throat. "At least take a blanket." Wilson fought with addled fingers to drag a throw blanket from the twisted remains of their neatly made bed, and then held out an edge, his arm trembling. "House, please. Take it." He shook the soft fabric as if movement might entice House to accept it. Developmental biology and evolution implied that he might, at that; children instinctively grabbed for moving objects.

An eyeball appeared from under House's lid, mistrustful, as if he were being stalked.

It nearly killed Wilson to say it, but he added, "Take it and I'll go sleep on the couch like you asked."

House appeared to consider that for a moment, and then his gaze turned inward. He reached a tentative hand toward the blanket, hesitated, and then let his fingers close over air before he drew his fist back and tucked it under his chest.

Wilson could barely contain his reaction to that, a House-ish plea to stay put. He moved slowly to toss the blanket over House's shoulders and spread it over as much of the man as it could reach, one bit at a time without touching him, and then withdrew to House's usual side of the bed. Wilson sunk down behind the barrier House had shoved between them and drew his knees up a little so that he rested comfortably on his side, facing House through a buffer zone of bedding that smelled like happier pieces of both of them. Wilson doubted that anyone would believe that depression carried a sour scent all its own, but it did; he could smell it. Desperate unhappiness and fruitless hope. It sort of smelled like the terminal wards, the subtle part underneath the latex and body odors and disinfectant.

"'Night, Wilson."

Wilson bit his lip; he didn't want House to know how upset he was, and no way would he sleep now. Once he was certain that his voice wouldn't betray him, Wilson murmured, "'Night, House." And then he kept watch over the space between them until a pink dawn showed at the window.

--TBC


	36. Chapter 36

Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I'm still responding to them, sorry it's taking me for friggin' ever. Real life is such a downer, interfering with fic and all that. Screw it. :P

Anyway, here's the next part. Warnings for vague references to child abuse.

**Previous chapter summary**: House disappeared from his office while Wilson and Cuddy argued over him. They called the police and went over security footage, only to learn that House hadn't been harmed; he had willingly walked off with a man that police identified as one of Lyamone's gang. It turned out that House had gone to pay off the drug guys, who had threatened to do something to Wilson unless House replaced the money that Lyamone used to have. When House and Wilson got back to the apartment, they ended up fighting, and then House broke down and told Wilson what the guys had threatened to do to him.

* * *

Wilson expected a certain degree of hostility the next morning. Whether House managed to sleep or not, Wilson was well used to his standoffish ways in matters of emotion. There should have been snark and cruel asides, digs, relentless mockery, even a bout of the silent treatment while House reevaluated himself for fresh wounds in light of having blabbed and cried like a little baby in front of Wilson. (The 'blabbed and cried like a little baby part' was merely how Wilson imagined _House_ saw it. Wilson himself saw no shame in what had transpired the night before.) What Wilson _didn't_ expect was the sudden muscle spasm at seven seventeen, and then the shouting and the throwing things – albeit harmless, mostly small things – and House practically screaming at him to get the hell out of his room, and fuck the rescue meds, and fuck Wilson too for that matter.

Yeah, so Wilson had sorely miscalculated House's level of screwed-up-ed-ness for the moment. House had the right, though; he had asked Wilson to leave him alone the night before, verbally and physically, and Wilson had insisted on staying, by which point House probably could not have helped whatever dribbled out of his mouth. He had wanted Wilson to leave to prevent that, the inadvertent disclosure thing. Wilson wasn't sure if the confrontation had been worth it. On the one hand, it might have been the perfect time, considering what Lyamone's men had been saying, and the way that must have torn at House's defenses. House had once told Wilson that he didn't want Wilson picturing him like that, like a victim; the street no doubt ran both ways. On the other hand, House clearly hadn't wanted to tell him anything about anything, not yet, and certainly not like that. All of the exhortations to stay the fuck away from him, yelled out through the open bedroom door, pretty much confirmed that much.

Wilson tried not to let it affect him, neither the irrational anger nor the myriad catalysts for it. He pulled last night's pancake batter from the refrigerator instead and set about cooking on autopilot. Maybe House would let him back in the room if he came bearing the man's favorite food. He could barely concentrate on cooking, though, and he ended up burning two pancakes for failure to flip them soon enough before he sighed and set the oven timer for his third attempt.

This wasn't an issue that Wilson knew how to deal with. He had once treated a patient whom he suspected of being abused, but he had turned that over to Cuddy and Social Services, as required by law. There were no government agencies to pawn House off on, and even if there were, House would never talk to them. He considered phoning Olivia's call service, but he figured that if House were inclined to talk to her about this, he would call her himself; he had been adept lately about contacting her when he needed to. Then again, this was a different situation, and House may not be able to ask her for help this time, since he couldn't pretend that it was about Wilson. When Wilson had been in that place, House had forced him to get help. Wilson held no illusions that the reverse would hold true, that House would thank him for it later. It would simply feel like another betrayal to him.

The singular sound of retching roused Wilson from his stupor in front of a lightly smoking pancake, and he flicked off the stove before making his way from the kitchen, leaving the pancake to singe itself into further inedibility in the cooling frying pan. He found House in a shivering pile on the bathroom floor, his head hanging over the toilet, one hand gripping the rim of the seat while the other maintained a death grip on his thigh. Unsure of his welcome, Wilson hung back in the doorway, waiting for House to notice him.

"M'not a sideshow."

"I know." Wilson took a cautious step forward, but stopped again at the sharp look House threw at his foot. "I didn't think you wanted me in here." The part about his wanting to be there to help, if absolutely necessary, went unspoken; House didn't need to hear it.

"So leave."

"Can you get up?"

"I'm not going anywhere, with or without your help."

Wilson sighed, at a loss. "We have rescue meds for this, House. Foreman prescribed a muscle relaxant for emergencies. Diazepam."

House glowered at the tiles between them, sweaty and flushed from vomiting, but pale around the edges. Rather than more angry exhortations to go fuck himself in new and creative ways, House merely dropped his gaze and mumbled, "Stay away from me."

"At least let me get you the shot," Wilson entreated. "Then I'll go back to the kitchen."

"You should go back now," House persisted with slightly more force. "You already burned something – I can smell it. Trying to cash in on my fire insurance?"

"You know that's ridiculous." Wilson paused to flick a glance off to the side, then pointed out, "And you don't have fire insurance."

"Oh, good. I can lose my apartment too, then. Wouldn't want my fall from grace to be incomplete." House rolled his eyes and then gazed stupidly down into the dirtied toilet water before he thought to fumble a hand at the lever to flush it down. "If you're just gonna hover, you could at least get me some water."

"House, the shot."

"Water," House snapped back.

Wilson scowled with little true ire and stepped around House's outstretched leg to fetch a Dixie cup of water from the sink. When he dangled it in front of House's nose, House recoiled, then snatched at it. "Go easy," Wilson admonished when House gulped it down in one swallow. He ended up refilling the cup twice so that House could rinse his mouth out and spit into the toilet; why he hadn't done that first, before the actual drinking, Wilson would never know.

House sipped delicately at the third cupful, glowering into it as he did so, perhaps as an excuse to keep avoiding Wilson's presence. Eventually, he asked, "Why aren't you trying to pry?"

Wilson blinked. "Because it wouldn't work?"

"That's never stopped you before." House's eyes flickered in a flash of blue, coming to rest on Wilson's pajama pant leg. His voice low, strangely sober, he asked, "What are you thinking?"

Wilson cleared his throat, then sighed long and hard. His hand had already migrated to the back of his neck; he forced it to hang limp at his side instead. "I'm trying not to."

House frowned and shifted his gaze to his own knee, then to the whitened knuckles of the fingers clamped on his leg. Wilson watched him loosen his grip just a little bit. "But you suspected. I know you suspected." He seemed let down by this assertion; tossing the empty Dixie cup into the trash can seemed designed to cover it up.

"House, it's…different." Wilson gestured loosely with one hand, his breath leaving him audibly. "To know. It's not the same."

"Oh." House picked at his flannel pants, one lip drawn in between his teeth.

"Even _you _said that. Yesterday, about how your mom knew, but didn't really." Wilson watched House pointedly not watching Wilson back, and then ventured, "What are _you_ thinking?"

"That my throat burns. You know." House snuck a hooded glance at Wilson's face, then fixated on his own hands. "From the regurgitated stomach acid."

"Right," Wilson whispered, his voice devoid of its usual dubious tendencies. Tactfully, Wilson changed the subject; House appeared on the verge of getting sick all over again. "Is this pain-induced nausea, or…other?"

"Leg," House snapped, but then he waffled and wrinkled his nose at the toilet.

Great, Wilson thought. House was pulling the psychosomatic, conversion disorder thing again. Whether his mood affected it or not, it hurt. Somehow, House had started to forget that, or doubt himself to that extent… Wilson frowned, but he tried to hide it by forcing his mouth into a flat line. "You're going to let me get you a muscle relaxant."

"It'll knock me out," House protested. Diazepam plus opiates made for a nice stupor. "I have a case."

"You just threw up because it hurts so much," Wilson pointed out, hands settling on his hips.

House arched an eyebrow at the toilet, then shrugged. "So?"

Exasperation couldn't help itself around House. Wilson threw up his arms and walked back out into the hall, only to spin around and march right back in. "You can't practice like this. I doubt you could even get up off the floor right now."

Rather than hurt himself trying to prove Wilson wrong, House deflated a little bit and kept his eyes lowered. Uncommonly soft, he insisted, "I want the case, Wilson."

Wilson started to argue, but the fight whooshed right out of him. He stepped forward, wishing he could feel that familiar fond annoyance with House's stubborn ways, rather than this sick sort of sense of loss. "House…" Wilson knelt down in front of him and let his hand hover near House's knee before diverting to rest it on the rim of the toilet near House's. "This isn't your last case."

House turned his head away, exposing the long sweep of his neck in the process. Wilson could still see the bullet scar there, faded as it was. Without looking up, House replied, "You don't know that."

That was true. Wilson didn't know that, he could merely hope. And try to bring Cuddy to her senses. Barring that, he could try to convince House to sue the hospital, under any pretense whatsoever. Were there even legal grounds for fighting the termination of his employment? House _had_ been high; there had been too many opiates in his system, accident or no. And with his history, with the charges that Tritter brought against him three years ago, House's blatant use of Vicodin to the point where no matter how compliant he was, it _looked_ like nothing better than drug abuse… Would he have grounds to contest getting fired? A child had died, true. It wasn't House's fault, but would anyone else be able to see that past the haze of extraneous circumstances surrounding the shooting? House's state of mind or sobriety shouldn't even be an issue, considering that Lyamone had started his rampage long before showing up on PPTH's doorstep. But that didn't necessarily mean anything. As House was fond of pointing out, life was rarely fair, and yet for whatever reason, every time life proved that rule, it took House by surprise. He always seemed to fall so hard.

House shifted on the floor, drawing Wilson's attention back to the moment, and then House bit back a grunt, wincing. Wilson watching his knuckles go white where he gripped the rim of the toilet seat, the fingernails of his other hand dug into the soft flannel of his sleep pants in the vicinity of the resection site. "House…"

"M'fine," House snapped, his voice clipped and irritated. He grimaced suddenly, his whole face screwed up in pain, and then gradually loosened up all over.

"You are _not_ fine," Wilson told him, endeavoring to come off as flat even though he could feel the pity warring over possession of his own face. "Stop trying to convince me otherwise. It's gone far enough." And he wasn't talking about the leg that time.

House's muscles bunched again for a moment, and then he uncoiled as a slow, shaky breath snaked out between his teeth. Sounding exhausted, House flexed the fingers of the hand that had been clamped on his leg, and mumbled at the floor, "I'm no good at that."

Wilson let his eyebrows slant. "No good at letting me know you're not fine?"

House scowled, his eyes meeting Wilson's only long enough for Wilson to read annoyance there. "How long have you known me? And you're actually asking me that?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and nodded to acknowledge the point.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," House added, his hand kneading at his thigh again, angry in the hunched set of his shoulders and the way he didn't even bother looking in Wilson's general direction. "You don't want to know, so just…leave it."

"What?" Wilson ducked his head to try and catch House's eyes, but House refused to look away from the towel rack. "House, what are you talking about? Of course I want to know – how can I help you if I don't know?"

"You _don't_," House insisted.

"Funny you should think that," Wilson snapped, mocking a comment that House had once made to him. "Considering how I keep butting into your life and prying things out of you."

"It's not…" House huffed, and then jutted his chin out as he diverted his gaze yet again, somehow more reticent than Wilson had expected, which said something about how open House had become of late without Wilson really noticing the change; it had happened so slowly.

"It's not _what_?" Wilson asked. He tried to sound reasonable, but he didn't think he managed to hide all of the inadvertent anger that he had tied up with the idea that House didn't think Wilson cared enough to want to know when he was hurting.

House spent a few too many seconds fidgeting with the edge of his shirt and scratching a fingernail over a tiny divot on the toilet seat. Eventually, his demeanor darkened and House seemed to shrink in place as some ineffable part of him dimmed. "You don't have to pretend. You think you're supposed to care about it because that's what people do, and you're James Wilson. You always have to do what other people think you should. But you don't have to. I don't expect you to, okay? I know it's a pain in the ass for you. You're not obligated just because we're friends, or because we fuck sometimes."

Tiny pieces of Wilson's heart fractured off on the spot. "Oh, for…House…" He trailed off and shook his head. "You can be such an idiot sometimes." Though he said it fondly, he meant every bit of it.

House glanced at him in confusion, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that remote sort of sadness that even House couldn't hide. The kind that always caught Wilson off guard when he saw it, because it seemed so deep-seated – so genuine. More natural to House's features than any other expression he chose to wear. Then House hardened a little and slanted his eyes to the side, but he seemed more embarrassed than anything else.

Wilson looked down, then away, and leaned back against the doorjamb, his head canted to the side only because the toilet paper ring got in his way. "You know, I was thinking." But he hadn't been, actually; this was all Wilson being spontaneous, and perhaps stupid, but whatever. "This stuff with your license, your job…it'll blow over eventually."

"Quit patronizing me."

Wilson ignored the interruption and plowed resolutely ahead. "But until then, things will be a little rough. I can cover the bills without a problem" – no need to mention the moving in part; with luck, House wouldn't even notice that Wilson let his lease expire, not with the majority of his things slated for a storage locker anyway – "but the medical bills might be a problem. You need health insurance."

"Not if I just stop going to the doctor."

"You need your medication, and that gets expensive."

"If I let her fire me, I can collect unemployment for a little while." The toilet lid squeaked as House toyed with it, twiddling it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. "After that, I figured…Ngyen said I could go on disability if I wanted to."

Wilson glanced over, one eyebrow twitching, to find House pointedly pretending that he was alone in the bathroom. "We both know your pride precludes that."

"I'll do it if I have to," House insisted, though he pulled a face when he said. Obviously, the notion disgusted him.

Well, this was the moment. Now or never. Wilson nodded to himself, his fingers picking at each other, and then plunged on ahead. "You wouldn't need to if I put you on my insurance."

Pajama clad limbs rustled against the floor, and Wilson watched House's foot leave his periphery as House drew it closer to himself. "You _can't_ put me on your insurance, Wilson. As much as you might think your charms can cure everything, Cuddy would never let that happen."

"She wouldn't have a choice." Wilson tore his eyes from his hands and met House's gaze squarely. He needed to look at House to do this. "New Jersey law affords the same coverage rights to domestic partners as to spouses."

House's cheek twitched, and then he narrowed his eyes. "Are you – "

"Proposing," Wilson cut in, but then he chickened out of the eye contact and licked his lips. "Not exactly how I'd hoped to do it." Then he shrugged and expelled a self-deprecating laugh. "Actually, I don't think I'd hoped to do it at all, but…" He left off with a tiny, rueful smile and shifted his shoulder to take the edge off his nerves. "Say something. Call me an idiot, anything." Several tense moments passed and Wilson's mouth went dry. He glanced at the hallway behind him, fidgeted, and then braced himself to get up and leave the room.

House's voice stopped him, surprisingly gentle rather than mocking. "Wilson, I don't have anything to offer you."

Wilson swallowed and settled on the floor again, anything but relaxed. "I'm not asking for anything you haven't already given me." He risked glancing up, but only with his eyes; he kept his face lowered. "More. I asked for more, and I got it." He paused, eyes skewing away on their own, his mind jumping back to a near-disastrous conversation in his Volvo, sitting in the PPTH parking lot in the wintery car, and he asked the same question he had asked back then. House hadn't given him an actual answer before. "Do _you_ want more?"

House had to have realized what Wilson was doing. Months ago, House had replied that he didn't know, but a week later, he'd given Wilson closet space and an open invitation.

The silence turned suffocating, and Wilson couldn't stop himself from repeating it, his voice just a pale whisper left to echo off the cold, scoured tiles. "Do you?" He didn't even know which response would relieve him more – absolve him of responsibility or officially let him have what he already coveted. He'd failed at this too many times already; he knew he might do it again. It wasn't even like it felt right this time; that would be too cliché. He only felt a mute terror building in his veins.

"Wilson." So gentle, that rough little murmur. Understanding, like House knew exactly what Wilson was thinking. Sympathy – no, _empathy_. A shared moment of quiet panic. "Wilson, look at me."

"I don't think I can right now."

"I need you to look at me."

Reluctantly, Wilson let his gaze flicker up to House's, and he found the blue eyes too startling to meet for long without fighting an urge to flinch. Just…too clear.

House studied him for a second, piercing him to places Wilson didn't even visit himself. "Is this just a Saint Jimmy thing?"

Wilson knew what he meant. Was this just a favor, one of those stupid things that Wilson did because it was easier than dealing with the misplaced guilt of doing nothing when he had a solution to offer. The gravity of the moment called for unfettered honesty, as much as Wilson's instincts screamed at him to spout convincing appeasements on auto-pilot. It would be so easy to say no; he could lie when he needed to, even to House. But he didn't. "I don't know."

House gave a tiny nod and leaned back against the alcove wall, mercifully breaking eye contact. His hand dropped back to his thigh to absently rub at sore muscles, a tell if ever there was one.

"House – "

"Okay."

Wilson's throat closed over the rest of his sentence, and then he did a double take and stammered, "Okay?"

"Yeah." House stilled his roving hand and lifted his gaze back to Wilson. "I'll do it."

Wilson could only jerk his head in half a denial, bewildered. "You'll do it?" Brilliant; just repeat everything he says.

"Yeah. I'll marry your sorry, thrice-divorced ass."

"Oh." Wilson blinked, then shook himself. "Oh! Okay, then. Great." He only shook his head out of disbelief, his brow furrowed low between his eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm confused."

"Well, that's flattering."

"No, seriously."

"It's just a stopgap, Wilson. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

Wilson threw him a sharp look.

"Unless it works."

Wilson narrowed his eyes, suspicious upon seeing a glint of something strange in House's eyes. "You're giving me an out?"

House nodded, his face betraying a hint of self-consciousness. "I won't let you fail again, okay? It's just a scam unless it works."

Wilson tilted his head to regard House in a new light. He finally felt the relief trickle through him. _That_ was the moment he realized he'd made the right choice. This thing between them wasn't dysfunctional at all. And it would last.

Wilson felt the edges of his mouth quirk. "I get to stomp on the glass."

House grinned, and Wilson suddenly remembered exactly why he had stuck by House all these years. House's smile – the _real _one, with his teeth showing – could melt glaciers. "No way, Hair Care Boy. _You_ get to be the wife."

"Nuh-uh. I called dibs."

"In your dreams."

"Bite me."

"Geez. Engaged for two minutes, and you're already corrupting my virtue."

Wilson snorted. "Like hell. I did _that_ months ago."

House smirked back and merely pronounced him an ass. "But it's _my_ ass," he added.

And Wilson agreed.

* * *

The rest of the morning passed mostly in silence, but a relatively comfortable one. Wilson was gleefully terrified, which sort of confused him into acting like a moron for a while. House was kind enough to reserve the sarcasm, even when Wilson decimated the closet looking for a tie that he probably didn't own anymore. House eventually got fed up with his chattering and grumbling, and picked one out for him. Then he nearly strangled Wilson when he lassoed him with it to make him knock it off.  
After that, Wilson left House in the shower because House insisted that he get lost, and Wilson shriveled a little when he realized that it was because House didn't want to take his clothes off until he left the room. They hadn't had to deal with House's body-image issues since December, and the resurgence made Wilson reevaluate all the reasons why House might have been like that before. Not just the scar, or the fifty year old body, but the presence of another man in the room with him. It scared Wilson to think that maybe House had been hesitant in the beginning for reasons other than a sudden gender identity crisis.

The pancake he had left in the skillet had fused itself to the Teflon by the time Wilson got back to the kitchen, and he merely threw the whole thing away, cookware and all. He needed a new skillet anyway if the non-stick coating had stopped non-sticking. A few minutes of cleanup and a cup of instant coffee later, Wilson wandered out into the living room and noticed the message light on the answering machine blinking. They'd been gone almost a week; there were probably a dozen messages, so with House occupied in the bathroom, Wilson settled on the arm of the couch with a pad and a pen, and hit the play button.

The first few messages were hang-ups and Wilson deleted them. Then came a call from Stacy telling House to simply call her back when he got it. Wilson's mother next, and then a last message time stamped from just that morning. Wilson didn't remember the phone ringing, but then again, he also couldn't remember seeing the cordless handset anywhere; the battery had probably died, wherever it was. Wilson would have to find it later. In the mean time, the machine clicked over, and then a man's voice played out through the speaker.

"_I'm calling for Doctor Gregory House. This is Ryan Sheffer from the Harvard School of Medicine, Public Relations Office. Doctor Wesley requested that I call you concerning the commission of a book on diagnostic medicine. I must inform you that we have decided not to release the book at this time. I'm sure you can understand our position, considering the recent publicity surrounding Princeton Plainsboro, though once the matter is resolved, Harvard is eager to resume negotiations with you. We hope for a satisfactory resolution to this matter, and until then, we will retain all copyrights to the material. Doctor Wesley has also specified that since the work was already produced, we will not seek the return of the advance payment. A certified letter will follow for your records._" Sheffer paused, and when he spoke again, he had dropped the professional pretense. "_I'm sorry, Doctor House. I'm sure this is the last thing you needed right now, and I really do hope things turn out well for you._" The line crackled as Sheffer hung up, and then the answering machine clicked to signify the end of the tape.

Wilson stared at the machine for a second, his ears attuned to House shutting off the shower and whisking the shower curtain aside. Then he hit the delete button and went on about the rest of his morning.

Getting to the car was an ordeal. House's morning leg pain had finally passed into neuropathy, but the numb tingles carried its own brand of irritation, and House squirmed in the passenger seat the whole way to the hospital. Wilson tried not to take obvious note of it because he could sense the ill temper returning with a vengeance, but he had to help House drag himself from the car once they parked, which never went over well, and then he trailed House around the parking lot for fifteen minutes while he lurched down the aisles in the vain hope of walking it off.

House shed his coat the moment they passed through the lobby doors, angry and sweating from the frenzied pacing, and immediately ran afoul of the receptionist. Wilson hung back, though, and let House snark himself out before he stormed off to the elevators and pushed his way onboard, leaving Wilson holding his coat in the lobby. Once House had disappeared, Wilson looked down at the coat, up at the ceiling, and then stalked off to buy himself a bagel.

When Wilson stepped off the elevator fifteen minutes later with both his own coat and House's folded over his arm, loaded down by his briefcase and a bagel baggie, his ears were immediately assaulted by the sweet dulcet tones of –

Oh, who was he kidding? House was yelling at the top of his lungs. Even the wheelchair-bound were scurrying for cover. Wilson stopped in the hall long enough to gaze at the empty air in supplication, his arms and their loads dangling loosely at his sides, and then he dragged his feet into his own office, where paper thin walls communicated House's bellow to him without a hitch.

" – _told you to measure his A.S.T. And what did you do instead? No, I'm actually asking you – what did you do!?_"

Wilson plunked his briefcase down beside his desk and then shook out House's coat before hooking it on the coat tree. His own followed.

"_I don't care what the damn wife said … Because it's s__clerosing cholangitis – all he's got is Crohn's!_"

The laptop dinged when Wilson hit the power button, and then the irritating stereophonic boot-up jingle poured through his office.

"_I don't know; why don't you tell me? And _you_ – you do _not_ have immunity just because you're Cuddy's prized little yappy lapdog!_"

If Wilson didn't need coffee so badly, he would leave House's fellows to their fates. As it was, House's office still contained the best coffee in the hospital, if only because his employees knew how far a good cup o' Joe could go for soothing a House-brand tantrum. Or at least, that's what Wilson told himself as he hooked a finger in the handle of his empty mug and strolled back out into the hall. It really was an unusually loud morning, though; House so rarely lost his temper that Wilson could only imagine how bad his leg must actually be. He should have drugged House stupid and left him drooling and half comatose on the bed instead of humoring his insane notion that he has to savor his last case.

Wilson affected his chirpy, unfazed face as he stepped into Diagnostics. "Hey."

"Wilson! Tell them what complications arise from unmanaged Crohn's disease."

Without breaking stride, Wilson replied, "Cancer." It was a safe bet, considering House had just asked an oncologist.

"Thank you." House leaned over the table, perched near the edge of his chair, and indicated Wilson with an over-exaggerated flourish. "_That's_ how you do it."

"You're berating them," Wilson remarked blandly as freshly brewed coffee splashed down into his mug.

House twisted around to grasp the back of his own chair with one hand, an icy blue glare leveled at Wilson's head. "They deserve it! They ignored – "

"No," Wilson broke in softly. "They don't." He carried his coffee to the empty chair on House's left and slid smoothly into it.

House faced the table and fumed for a second, then burst from his chair to accost the whiteboard. Wilson watched him covertly, measuring House's length of stride and force of footfall as only he knew how. Seven, he guessed; House's leg had topped out at a seven so far. Before House could notice him looking, Wilson went back to sipping his coffee, facing the opposite direction.

Foreman apparently decided that Wilson's presence offered a buffer or a safe zone or something inane like that, because he took up his side of the argument again, though he put the table between them first. "Look, _I_ was the attending yesterday; you're not even officially on this case."

Wilson tried to communicate how bad an idea that was by burying his nose in his coffee and tugging a medical journal over in front of himself. Behind him, he heard House shuffle his feet, perhaps turning or swinging his upper body around in one of those weird contortionist poses he could adopt nowadays by virtue of being a tripod.

Oblivious to Wilson's unspoken warnings and eyebrow signals, Foreman plowed right on. "Choledocholithiasis seemed way more likely, especially with – "

"Since when do we deal in likely?!" House kept resituating his right foot as if it threatened to slip out from under him at any second; Wilson watched it from the corner of his eye, a frown pulling at his face as he inhaled the fresh aroma of hot coffee. "This isn't the campus nurse's office. _Likely_ never makes it to us, and you know it. How do you expect to do this job if you won't trust your own gut? You can't come crying to me every time you're too chicken to make the right call."

Foreman squeezed the life out of the file clenched in his left hand, his right hidden in his pocket. His voice positively grated as he replied, "It wasn't a likely diagnosis."

"Oh, you are _so_ full of shit." House gave one of those horrible smiles of his, the one that heralded a barrage of the cold, hard truth. Smart men ran from that look. House stepped forward with his cane jabbed firmly into the carpet, but with House's elbow right next to Wilson's face, Wilson could see the strain there. "You just can't admit that you're afraid of screwing up. That you might make a bad call and kill someone. Again. You can't do this job if all you're going to do is take the safe road – there is no safe road in this room."

Wilson touched a finger to House's arm, alarmed by the rapid cadence of his breathing. "House, calm down."

House ignored him and took another shaking step nearer to Foreman as a means of slipping out from under Wilson's hand. "You screwed up this diagnosis all by yourself, just by being a pussy about it. Own up to it. Quit hiding behind your goddam protocol – do you think that man's wife gives a crap about practice guidelines or statistics? No, she doesn't. You cure them, and protocol doesn't count for shit anymore."

"House, seriously." Wilson caught at his arm again, noting the faint sheen of sweat beading along the column of House's neck, along with the flushed hue of his skin.

Foreman seemed to sense something more in House's temper than bastardly tendencies and a snarky limb. "House, you need to sit down."

"No, _you _need to grow a backbone and do your damn job. You knew you were doing the wrong thing – you wouldn't have tried paging me otherwise. You just wanted to cover your own ass. As long as _I'm _making the call, you don't have to feel guilty when it all goes to hell. You can't keep…dhah…_fuck_." House's bad leg, already visibly trembling under his outraged gesticulations, chose that moment to buckle.

Wilson barely had to move to catch at him, since he was sitting right there, but there was really no graceful way for a man of House's height and build to collapse. Wilson barely managed to shove House into the nearest chair before his leg folded altogether, knocking his coffee over in the process. He noticed Thirteen sopping at the spilt coffee with a wad of napkins from Kutner's half-eaten breakfast, but his attention had narrowed to the fingernails that House had just gouged into his arm. Wilson dislodged House's hand and straightened as House bowed forward to thunk his forehead down on the table, his hands clamping down on his bad leg.

Wilson jerked his head at the fellows in a silent command to get lost.

"Hey – I'm not finished with them."

With a stern glance thrown in for good measure, Wilson told him, "Let them go, House."

"No!" House rocked slowly in his chair, probably an unconscious move tied to his breathing, and dragged his head up. "They screwed up the diagnosis. How are they going to learn – "

More loudly, Wilson bit out, "House, let them go." He widened his eyes a fraction at the gawking fellows and threw another pointed glance at the door.

Before the other doctors had even left the room, House sort of slanted in Wilson's direction and snapped, "I need more Vicodin."

"I offered you the muscle relaxant before we left," Wilson replied, one eye trained on the curious backwards glances cast by the retreating fellows. Since they were out of earshot, Wilson settled in the chair beside him and laid a calming hand on House's forearm, disguised as a reach for his pulse. "You should have stayed home."

"I can stay home Saturday. And all sorts of other days after that." House wheezed in his next breath, his back rounded as he ducked his head, his right hand clenched so hard over his thigh that his fingers had to be throbbing by now. "Wilson, _Vicodin_. Or a shotgun. I don't care which."

"You can't just take your hostility out on your fellows. Are you trying to give Cuddy more reasons to fire you?"

House's head snapped up as he spit, "She already has plenty!" Then he jerked at random and bit back a sharp gasp and hissed, "_Ow_! God dammit." His left hand drew into a fist on the glass table top. "Wilson, I'm serious. My heart's gonna explode in another fifteen minutes at this rate."

Wilson relented with a sigh, and asked, "How many have you taken already?" He didn't want to mix too much hydrocodone with the anti-seizural meds, but House was right. If this went on much longer, he's go tachycardic and then into arrest.

"However many you gave me this morning," House snapped. Then he sucked in a ragged breath and blew it slowly out through his teeth.

Oh. Wilson grimaced as he climbed to his feet, pulling out his prescription pad on the way out into the hall. House was asking Wilson for pills because he hadn't brought his own from the apartment. A vague sense of guilt seeped out into Wilson's signature as he scrawled out a script and tore it off. He should have realized House didn't bring them – they had some sort of unofficial pact now, apparently; House wouldn't tempt himself by keeping a bottle of Vicodin on his own person, and Wilson had to dole it out only when House actually needed it. Way to go, Wilson, not noticing the implied agreement. He should have, by now, all things considered.

Wilson snagged a passing nurse and handed her the script, snuggling her petite fingers between his larger palms and throwing in a disarming smile to boot. She immediately agreed to fill the script and bring the pills back up to him, pronto. Wilson thanked her, waited until her hand slipped from his as she turned her back, and then screwed his face up in a long-suffering pinch before he slogged back into the conference room.

House glared up at Wilson as he re-entered, eyes red-rimmed over the paler set of his cheeks, chest heaving in rapid, shallow bursts. "You couldn't do that without feeling her up?"

"Don't start," Wilson snapped back, slumping heavily into the chair beside him. He slid down into a slouch that his long legs didn't quite accommodate, and crossed his arms, watching House quiver and pant in his periphery, his face turned away from Wilson and nearly tucked into his elbow, which rested on the tabletop. Mostly to himself, Wilson sighed, "This sucks."

Into his arm, House blandly replied, "It's all peaches and cream from my end."

Wilson smiled a little and glanced fondly over at House, taking in the blazer stretched taut over his spine on account of his bowed body. "Hey."

House slid his face free and pressed his brow to the tabletop, probably relishing the chill glass surface, before he consented to glare at Wilson. His features softened, however, when he noticed Wilson's expression; he merely appeared tired, now. Worn. And he continued to shiver in gentle waves while his leg misbehaved. "You forgot my pills, didn't you."

"What did you think I was doing with the nurse in the hallway? Right in front of you, I might add?"

House offered a listless shrug as he dropped his eyes and went back to burying his head in his arm. "Didn't put it together." He chuffed and clarified, "Leg," as if Wilson didn't already know what had muddied up his thought processes. Then he stiffened all of a sudden and swore under his breath. "Shit."

"What?" Wilson demanded, alarmed. "Where are – House!" He stood up when House did and watched him bolt out into the hall, cast a look both ways, and then take off to the right in his hop-lurching approximation of a sprint, bellowing Foreman's name.

Wilson drummed his fingers on the tabletop, blew tiny pops of air out from between pursed lips, then grabbed his coffee and headed back to his own office. When he got there, his eyes fell on House's jacket hanging innocently from his own coat tree. Wilson set aside his coffee in favor of feeling up the supple, careworn leather, his fingers deluding themselves into thinking that he could pick out the shape of House's biceps in the stretch marks of the sleeves. Too soon, he hit on the bulbous shape of an envelope stuffed full of photographs. Wilson drew it out and stood still for moment, contemplating all of those tiny glimpses of himself caught at mundane duties, the unadorned Wilson that had somehow prompted House to get into a car with a dangerous drug dealer and wire transfer away every last penny he had as if it were nothing to willingly traipse into financial ruin.

Wilson glanced up at the walls of his office, his _Vertigo_ poster, his cancer-patient chotchkies, his framed degrees… Wilson didn't even know where House had secreted his degrees; none of them were on display in his office, and Wilson knew that he possessed more of them than most other doctors. He just didn't have them on hand to brag over. And at this very moment, House was throwing his weight around in some other part of the hospital –never mind the agony he had to be in, that just breathing had to cause him – just because he'd gotten some sort of intuitive flash. The patient came first – before the pills or the leg, before dinner plans or much-needed sleep, even before Wilson. Except once. And even then, it had been Wilson who kept House from focusing his will elsewhere. Always, the medicine trumped. House could deny all he wanted that he didn't give a damn about the people he treated; an obsession for puzzles and intrigue could only explain so much.

Wilson looked again at the photos in his hand and wondered if there were anything at all that would take away House's love of medicine. Or anything that could replace it, because Wilson already knew that _he_ wasn't any sort of substitute. He could play at being a stopgap, but in the end, there was nothing House loved more than medicine. Nothing that could hold him and keep him going. Not even Wilson. And the thought of what House might do if the medicine were taken away, if he had to face never getting it back... It didn't bear contemplation.

Outside his office, Wilson heard House stampeding back down the corridor, a one-man cloud of entropy with a hapless gaggle of fellows caught in his orbit. They blew past Wilson's door without noticing him standing there. Wilson waited until they had disappeared from view again, hospital business resuming in their wakes as if House had never been there, hadn't just swept through saving a life. Wilson set his jaw and clasped the snapshots tightly in his hand as he strode from the room.

* * *

Wilson had no sooner passed through Cuddy's door, than she remarked, "You missed a budget committee meeting this morning."

He ignored that and tossed the envelope right on top of the paperwork she was filling out.

Cuddy started, lifting her pen out of the way, and gazed up at Wilson with an expression that tried hard to reach the implacable stage. "What is this?" She picked up the envelope and let it dangle from between two fingers.

"Look at it." Wilson crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Cuddy sighed, somewhat exasperated, and softened as she looked at him. "James, listen. I know you're upset with me – "

"_Look_ at the damn photos."

Cuddy must have decided that humoring him was the easier road for now, but she pressed her lips into an impatient line as she unfolded the flap and drew the small stack out. Her face changed a few heartbeats later; Wilson could pinpoint the exact moment when she realized what she was holding.

"That's why he paid them off," Wilson said unnecessarily. "I'm not even going to repeat what they threatened to do, but _that_ is the man you're trying to ruin, Lisa."

Cuddy settled a little lower in her seat, the photos fanned out like cards, like a winning poker hand. "James – "

"Why are you doing this?" He hadn't mean to sound quite so lost, but it came out that way, and perhaps there was no point in fighting it. "He…_cried_ last night. Lisa, he cried for an hour, and then he wouldn't let me touch him. He thinks you're all right about him – he thinks that kid died just because he's a pathetic junkie. He isn't fighting you on this because he thinks he deserves it." Wilson tossed a hand helplessly out to his side. "And maybe he's right. Maybe he does deserve it; I don't know anymore. But _I _need to know why, Lisa. I need a better reason than that he's House."

Cuddy bowed her head and then shook it; she had the grace to finally look ashamed over everything that had transpired since the shooting. "I thought… I don't know what I thought. It seemed like the right thing to do when the police told me they tested his blood, but…I don't know anymore…why..." She peered again at the simplistic scenes arrayed in her fingers, her mouth turned down, and murmured, "Two hundred thousand dollars."

Wilson nodded, considered for a bare second, and then decided to just go ahead and ask something that had been plaguing him for a while now. Ever since she had accidentally discovered that he and House were dating. "Are you jealous?"

Cuddy pierced him with a cold, insulted gaze. "That is _not_ an issue here. Do you really think I'd _fire_ him just because – "

"He hasn't done anything out of the ordinary in months, for him, except fall into a relationship with me. I can't ignore the correlation."

Cuddy gaped at him. "You actually do. You think I'm doing this to…what, get back at him for having sex with you?"

Wilson leveled a blank stare on her and merely waited. From his flat affect, he made it clear that yes, he thought her capable of that brand of pettiness.

"I'm not," Cuddy told him, and then repeated more emphatically, "James, that is _not_ the issue here. I don't even… I don't want House. Not like that. I have a family – a daughter. There is no way he could ever fit into my life, and I know it. One interesting call from a fellow, and he'd leave the kid sitting on the counter with the stove on."

Wilson frowned because one, he saw her point, and two, he really didn't think that House would be a bad father; he'd be too busy trying to upstage his own dad in absentia to actually screw up raising a child. Or at least, Wilson believed as much. But to keep Cuddy off kilter, he continued to just stand there and glower without the malice that glowering implied.

Instead of fueling Wilson's suspicions, Cuddy looked down with a sigh and shuffled the photos back into a neat pile. "These should go to the police."

"They're all yours," Wilson replied. "I don't care what you do with them."

Cuddy nodded and secreted them back into the newly worn envelope. "I can't just make this go away," she qualified, though she sounded regretful of that.

"I'm not asking you to." Wilson slipped his hands into his pockets and then shrugged. Apparently, they were changing the subject; things might be better for it anyway. "I know you can't browbeat the board into reinstating his tenure, though it would probably work if you tried. All I'm asking is that you act like his god damn friend again. You have no idea how hard he's taking this." He paused then, and ventured, "There _is _one thing you could do, though. It might cost the hospital some money, but…it would help him feel less expendable."

Cuddy peered up at him doubtfully, her eyebrows slanted. "I can't make any promises."

Wilson nodded. "Call Stacy and ask her about House's book. She'll know what you mean."

"Okay." Cuddy appeared puzzled, but she didn't ask for details. Then she looked down at the envelope again, worried it between her fingers, and started to say something.

"Don't," Wilson cut in sharply. He relented a little at Cuddy's startled look, but he didn't back down. "I don't want an apology. You can say it until you're blue in the face; it still won't mean anything."

Defensive, Cuddy replied, "You think I don't regret – "

"I think it's just a word," Wilson interrupted again. "And I think…people lie even when they don't mean to. So just save us both the trouble, okay?" He hesitated, then added, "I've been let down enough lately."

Cuddy considered him for a moment, and then observed, "He's rubbed off on you." Wilson bristled, but before he could retort, she added, "It's a compliment."

"Oh." Wilson deflated and offered an uncertain nod. "Well. Maybe you should tell _him_ that sometime." He didn't wait for Cuddy to acknowledge that, but he did pause at the door with his back to her. "One more thing. I need you to send me new insurance and tax forms."

Behind him, Cuddy made a bewildered, semi-indignant noise and demanded, "Why?"

"Because I'm getting married." And with that, Wilson shoved through the door and left.

--TBC


	37. Chapter 37

Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I'm still responding to them, sorry it's taking me for friggin' ever. Real life is such a downer, interfering with fic and all that. Screw it. :P

Anyway, here's the next part. Warnings for vague references to child abuse. And, um...sorry it's so long.

**Previous chapter summary**: House disappeared from his office while Wilson and Cuddy argued over him. They called the police and went over security footage, only to learn that House hadn't been harmed; he had willingly walked off with a man that police identified as one of Lyamone's gang. It turned out that House had gone to pay off the drug guys, who had threatened to do something to Wilson unless House replaced the money that Lyamone used to have. When House and Wilson got back to the apartment, they ended up fighting, and then House broke down and told Wilson what the guys had threatened to do to him.

* * *

An hour later, near the end of his rounds, Wilson's ears perked up from where he stood at the sink in the oncology lounge, washing off an apple. He glanced over his shoulder at the mention of his name to find a few of his nurses arrayed around a table, lounging back on break and sipping coffee from cheap, un-environmentally-friendly Styrofoam cups. Wilson made a mental note to recirculate the green-initiative memo.

"I can't believe it," one of them said, petit little Sharron. She worked pediatrics.

"It's true," another replied, Cyndi the veteran surgical assistant. "Brenda told me herself. And they're _firing_ him for it. Can you believe it? I don't like House, I'll admit it; he's an ass. But it's not right."

The third nurse, Maggie from hospice care, shook her head. "Two hundred thousand dollars. I can't even get a can of Campbells from my boyfriend."

Wilson hunkered down as if the waist-height counter might actually hide him. They hadn't noticed him, and he wanted it to stay that way, but he would have to walk past them to get to the door. And who the hell blabbed it all over the hospital? Cuddy wouldn't have; he was sure of it. Maybe someone overheard him talking to her this morning, maybe Cuddy's assistant.

"I think it's sweet," Cyndi declared. Then she folded her hands around her coffee cup with a disappointed sigh. "And I really don't think he deserves Doctor Wilson."

Wilson felt his hackles go up, but the whole phrase seemed awkward, so he stayed put.

"Oh, come off it," a fourth nurse scoffed. Wilson didn't know her; she must be visiting from another floor, perhaps on rotation. "If House makes him happy, who the hell are we to – "

"I mean," Cyndi interrupted sharply, "that House could do better."

The other three nurses gaped at her, and then Maggie snorted. "No, he couldn't."

"Well, he _should_, then," Cyndi argued. "Doctor Wilson's a great doctor, and his patients all love him to death, but the man can't keep his hands to himself."

Visiting Nurse shifted in her seat. "He's not _that_ bad, is he?"

"He can be charming as hell," Cyndi replied off-handedly. "But really, I don't think he's all that nice. Come on; three divorces in twelve years? _You_ do the math. And House…good lord. The man's so attached to Doctor Wilson, it's almost scary. House would forgive him a knife in the back if it meant they could still be friends."

"_Has_ forgiven him," Shannon corrected uneasily. "I can't even imagine…all the crap that goes on between them…"

Maggie tittered into her cup, amused, and mocked, "Yeah, we should anonymously leave domestic abuse pamphlets on House's desk."

Cyndi frowned at her. "That's not funny."

"You know," Shannon offered, her poise introspective. "I was outside the Lyamone boy's room after the shooting, when they dragged House out of there. The poor guy was still trying to intubate, and the kid had no face left."

Maggie grimaced into her cup. "I really don't think we need to bring that up. We're supposed to be having a _good_ day for once."

Shannon ignored her. "Brenda says he saved her life. She really thinks she would've gotten shot if House hadn't taken her place."

"There, you see what I mean?" Cyndi asked rhetorically. "House is a complete bastard, but then he's _not_. I can't stand to be near the guy, but really… I'm starting to think he's just one of _those _doctors. You know?"

Shannon nodded and Maggie made a disgusted face that nonetheless conveyed her agreement, but Visiting Nurse merely gave them all puzzled looks. "I don't get it."

"The kind that gets too attached," Cyndi explained. "He can't dissociate, so he just stays away altogether."

Shannon set her coffee cup down and then leaned her elbows on the table as she sat forward. "You know, one of his fellows told me once that he keeps this stack of patient files in his desk. About a dozen. They're the ones he never solved."

Visiting Nurse declared, "That's not healthy."

"No," Cyndi replied. "But it's sort of endearing."

"House is _not_ endearing," Maggie snapped. "He's obsessive." But she appeared doubtful for a second.

They all fell silent for a little while, sipping absently at their coffee while Wilson tried to decide if sprinting for the door would be worth it. Then Shannon sat up a little straighter and said, "It was sad. After the shooting." She glanced up to make sure the others were still interested, and then went on. "House collapsed on the floor and Doctor Wilson just yelled at him about getting blood all over his suit. I mean, the guy just got shot and Doctor Wilson wouldn't even touch him. Brenda had to go over there and calm him down. She said he still had pieces of the kid's brain matter stuck in his hair; she kept picking it out."

A solemn moment passed, and then Maggie gave a resigned sigh. "Doctor Wilson wouldn't even visit him in the hospital after that bus crash last year. House did him a favor and ended up in a coma because of it, and all Doctor Wilson could bother to do was send me to tell him he wasn't welcome at that woman's funeral."

"Amber something," Shannon supplied. "I think it started with a B?" Then she shook it all off. "Whatever. Not like it matters."

"Right," Cyndi agreed, unconvinced. "But you see what I mean? House deserves better." Then she sighed and pushed her coffee away. "Doctor Wilson will just walk all over whatever kindness is left in him."

Wilson didn't even bother disguising his angry retreat after that.

* * *

"You seem awfully preoccupied," Olivia eventually remarked.

Wilson pulled himself back into the room with a long draught of breath, then uttered a very colloquial, "Huh?"

"Thus proving my point." Olivia offered a friendly smile and folded her arms on the desk. "Come on. Out with it. It's what you pay me for."

"I thought I was paying you to aggravate me on a daily basis."

Olivia merely looked at him, unimpressed.

Wilson let his brows crumple, glanced down at his lap, and then looked at Olivia again. "I overheard some of my nurses talking about how I'm a shallow, disloyal, selfish yet well-mannered prick."

"Well, that's kind of them."

"Do you think it's true?"

"Oh, no-no-no." Olivia leaned back in her chair and wagged a finger at him. "I'm not enabling you."

Wilson spread his hands out helplessly. "What? How is that enabling?"

"I'm not enabling you to use third party approval as a crutch for your own sense of lacking self-worth."

Wilson dropped his arms to the chair and groaned in exasperation. "You are _useless_ to me."

Olivia chuckled mirthlessly.

Against his better judgment, Wilson repeated, "Do you think I'm selfish?"

"No more so than any other doctors I know." At Wilson's clearly unhappy bid to avoid eye contact, she softened up. "Doctors are egotistical by nature; it comes with the trade. You're no different. And yes, egotism brings with it a certain brand of self-absorption. Do I think this is necessarily a bad thing? No. Not when it's tempered with some common humanity. And you _do_ temper it, James."

"Yeah," Wilson sighed, but not in concession. "I proposed this morning."

"Eh…okay." He heard rather than saw Olivia draw back; the chair squeaked at the weight dispersal. "Aaaaand…you think _this_ makes you selfish?"

"No." Curt, to the point…

"Where exactly is this discussion going?"

"I think they're right." There; he said it. Wilson squirmed into a marginally more comfortable position and then dared to look at Olivia again. "House all but admitted that his dad raped him when he was twelve. I get the impression it was oral. What the hell does that mean, exactly?"

"Um." Olivia laced her fingers together and frowned at them. "I'm really not following you here. Did you propose because of the gabby nurses, the confession, or something else?"

"I proposed because House is getting fired on Friday, and he needs medical insurance."

"Wow, okay. Hold up." Olivia held up a hand to enforce that. "He's getting _fired_? Why? From what I understand, he's been behaving himself lately."

"Yeah, well…the board thinks he's too dangerous to keep around considering his direct involvement in a murder-suicide." A quirky little hand gesture accompanied that, like a heart flutter in his fingers. "Did you hear about what happened last night?"

Poor woman; she just appeared confused at this point. "I make a point of ignoring gossip."

Forceful now, Wilson exclaimed, "He bankrupted himself to pay a ransom for me. Two hundred grand."

"Uh-huh. You were kidnapped last night?"

"No," Wilson scoffed. "But I could have been. That's why he paid it. They got someone in here to take pictures of me, and then they showed them to him."

"'Them' being the drug dealers? The ones who've been following you?"

"Yes! Who else would it be?"

"I really have no idea. What does this have to do with you possibly being selfish?"

"I don't know!"

"Ah. I see." Olivia drummed her fingers on the desktop and watched him fidget in response to the irritant. Then she stopped. "Are you getting cold feet?"

"What? No! But yes." Wilson fumed impotently from his chair on the other side of the desk, mentally cursing at the potted plant that bore witness to his complete discombobulation, and then he barked, "They think I'm just going to end up hurting him. That I'm not good enough for him."

"The nurses, or the drug dealers?"

Wilson blinked. "Why would the drug dealers give a shit that I'm contemplating getting married to my best friend?" he snapped, even though it wasn't her fault he kept losing her. "They don't even like him, and yet they think _I'm_ the worse of us."

"Uh-huh. We're talking about the nurses again, right?"

"Stop that!"

Olivia regrouped along with the adoption of a more professional pose. "James, I'm not sure what you expect me to say to you."

"What, and I do? You just said, this is what I pay _you_ for."

Olivia rolled his eyes and then rubbed at her temples. "God help me." She plopped her hands back down on the desk and fixed an irritated stare on Wilson. "James – "

"He gave me an out."

"Of…the proposal? Does he know you're not sure about this?"

"Yes. Sort of. He's House! Of course he knows." Wilson left off with a dejected sigh and then explained, "He told me it could just be a scam, if I wanted. It can just be about using the system to get him onto my medical plan until he can get another job and cover his own."

"So you're afraid this isn't going to work. Marrying him."

"No, I _know_ it will work. I know it."

Olivia blinked at him, glanced away, and then burst out laughing.

Wilson squinted at her. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Because you're hilarious! James. You're giving yourself an ulcer over the realization that you're about to _succeed_. If that's not funny, I don't know what is."

Wilson screwed his face up to one side and tried not to be obvious about sulking. "Do tell."

"It's simple, and I think you already get it. If you and House can work together, then that means that nothing's wrong with you. It means that your failure to make your previous marriages work might not have been _your_ fault. Not entirely. You've been coveting your guilt for so long that it's like the approximation of a sexual identity crisis to contemplate life without it. House gave you a get-out-of-jail-free card. He refuses to let you screw up attempt number four. You don't even have the option of failure now, if the time ever comes when you want out. You can't wallow in your guilt and console yourself by reminding yourself of how badly you screwed up – you have _such_ a complex. You actually need the failure – you identify yourself by it."

"I think you're oversimplifying things."

"James nothing about that could possibly be referred to as simple."

Just to be contrary, he challenged, "Maybe I'm just freaking out because I'm about to be fabulously, publicly gay – "

"Bi."

"Whatever. Fabulously bi, which means that House _is_ the reason my last two marriages failed. My wives saw it, and I didn't. And I led them on just because I'm a self-loathing, oblivious moron who couldn't even contemplate the possibility that they were right about me – that House mattered more than anything else. And the thing is, I even said it out loud sometimes. When I ranked the important things in my life, they were House and my job, in that order. It didn't even occur to me to rank my wife in there, and it didn't seem the slightest bit wrong that she didn't make the list – it never occurred to me! How fucked up is that? I've pissed away fifteen years of my own life, ten combined years of two wives' lives, and who knows how many of House's, pretending that I only need to suck down anti-depressants because my job sucks, not because I fucking hated my entire life and the fact that it wasn't going anywhere I wanted it to go, and never would – my dying patients lived more than I ever did!"

Olivia kept her face blank with a force of control that Wilson almost envied. He knew what he had just said, but he still wasn't sure that he wanted to know what Olivia thought of it.

Just to stave off her analysis a little longer, or perhaps to shut her down all together, Wilson struck out on the offensive again, sarcasm and bitterness making up for the fact that he couldn't have said these things without that front. House had once pointed out that sarcasm often offered a way to tell the truth without anyone realizing that it was the truth. Self-denial obscured in derisive self-loathing. "I'm just as pathetic as House always said I was. I substituted vicarious cancer suffering and death for an actual shot at making myself happy. I _wanted_ to suffer with them. All of them. I wanted to feel like I deserved to have a crap life since I ruined all of theirs by diagnosing them with cancer. Yeah, I know I didn't make them sick – there's nothing I could have done for any of them that I didn't already try, but it made me feel better to tell myself that I sucked at curing them. I keep praying I'll burn out one of these days. Do you know what a relief that would be? To just stop giving a damn and wallow in what a fuck-up I am. It would be liberating, to just not care anymore about how I can't seem to stop being miserable all the time. I have nothing to be miserable about, Olivia; I have everything I want. So why the fuck am I never happy?!"

Olivia nodded with her eyes downcast, as if to tell him that he could stop now. Before she responded, she folded her hands over her desk blotter and then quirked an eyebrow as she met his gaze. "Number one, there's nothing pathetic about the way you feel, or about your life, or about the fact that you're clinically depressed. Number two, I know I have very little to do with your decision to finally tell me all of this, but I'm proud of you anyway. I know it took a lot."

Wilson scoffed, but her words warmed him somewhere obscure. "Again, with the platitudes."

"If you prefer, I'll bake you cookies," Olivia chirped, the somber moment decimated. "Positive reinforcement differs from one man to another."

Wilson lifted a dubious eyebrow. "You'd actually bake me cookies?"

That seemed to confuse Olivia, and she tipped her head toward her shoulder. "Cooking for a person…that means something to you?"

Wilson shrugged self consciously, and tried to figure out what he had just given away. "Feeding somebody, yeah. I guess." He scratched a singer fingernail over the downy hair at the nape of his neck and then rolled a shoulder as if to draw attention away from his nervous habit. "Sharing food is sort of…intimate. And I like to feed people; it's soothing."

"Hm." Olivia tapped a forefinger against the edge of her desk, and then straightened. "Okay, time's up."

Wilson suppressed a faint twitch at the abrupt change in subject. "Oh. Right. Um." The edge of his mouth tugged upwards, and then he smiled in acknowledgement. "Okay, then. See you tomorrow."

Olivia nodded, and for some reason, saw fit to walk him to the door. Before Wilson could open it, though, she pressed her palm flat against the wood and craned her neck to catch Wilson's puzzled gaze. "House doesn't think you're pathetic. Far from it."

It took Wilson a moment to figure out how to respond to that; in the end, he affected an uncertain smile, inclined his head, and left without addressing the comment at all. She was probably right, and yet…he had never really been able to convince himself of that.

* * *

"Okay," Foreman said as he gently shut the exam room door. "I have good news, and I have bad news. Which do you want first?"

Wilson quirked an eyebrow and considered that for no good reason. "I don't care. Do I have an STD or not?"

"Are the rumors true?" Foreman said instead. "Did you actually propose to him?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "How many people know?" he demanded. "What, is there like an email list?"

"Yes. It's one of those opt-out things."

Wilson gave him a look, his hands planted on his hips.

Foreman feigned a disinterested shrug, but he was obviously curious. "Whatever makes you happy. I just want to know if it's true."

"Yes," Wilson snapped, though he wasn't sure why he felt the need to get quite so defensive all of a sudden.

"Okay." Foreman glanced down at the file he held, Wilson's alias file, and flicked through the top pages as if he didn't give a crap what it said. "You need a witness?"

Wilson blinked and then crossed his arms over his chest, moving toward the window as he did so. The blinds were open, so he could watch the people fussing around in the clinic waiting room without a problem. "Are you offering?"

"I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

Wilson heard the file flip closed with a slap of paper. "They have people at the courthouse to act as witnesses."

"Yeah, they do," Foreman agreed. "Am I allowed to come or not?"

A few tense seconds passed – tense for Wilson, anyway; Foreman probably didn't have a single actual emotion tied up in his offer, which made Wilson wonder why he offered at all. "I think…that would be nice. If you're not busy."

"I'll make sure I'm not. Just tell me when to show up."

Wilson nodded out the exam room window, his brow furrowed. "You could bring Remy too, if you want."

"She might get all gay-rights-activist on you," Foreman warned.

Wilson cracked a tiny smile. "I don't think that's a problem."

"Okay, then. Is this a black tie affair, or should we show up in dirty ripped jeans?"

That time, Wilson grinned for real, because he hadn't yet considered the possibility of manhandling House into a suit, or even a clean shirt. "Whatever you want to wear is fine. House will probably refuse to change out of his pajamas, just to make some convoluted point."

Foreman sort of chuffed in response. "We could drug him, stuff him into a suit, and then drag him to the courthouse."

"Nah." Wilson moved one shoulder to brush the whole issue off into the netherworld of unimportant details. "I don't really care as long as he shows up."

Behind him, Foreman probably nodded, and then his tone turned far more serious. "Are you sure about this?"

Wilson glanced over his shoulder to get a read on Foreman's expression, just to make sure that it matched his voice. "Why?"

"It's important. Just…" Foreman waved a hand at him, slightly uncomfortable, by the looks of him. "Just answer. Are you sure you want to do this? It's not just pity?"

Wilson felt himself flush a little, and snapped, "It's not pity." Then he quieted and turned back to glare out the window at a mill of random sick people. "No. I'm not sure at all."

More gently than before, Foreman asked, "Then why did you ask him?"

The sigh seemed to heave itself out of Wilson without any higher brain function involvement. "I wanted to." He spoke as if the answer surprised even himself.

A few more seconds passed, the silence broken by a muffled hiss of white noise that crept through the door from the waiting room beyond. Wilson felt like the exam room was under water, every sound hitting his ears in a dull, delayed manner, unsynchronized with the movement he observed.

Foreman broke the unnatural quiet, his own voice hushed as if in deference to Wilson's blank thoughts. "You have a urinary tract infection."

It took several moments for that to sink in, and then Wilson pushed off the window, his arms still crossed protectively over his chest. He turned to cock his head at Foreman and echoed, "A urinary tract infection? I have a urinary tract infection?"

"Yep." Foreman wouldn't look at him, though, and Wilson narrowed his eyes in suspicion as Foreman scrawled out a script, tore it off, and held it out toward him.

Wilson made no move to take the script. "You're lying."

"The chart says you have a UTI," Foreman replied. Not exactly a denial.

"I'm sure it does," Wilson said, eyeing the script. He could read the medication from where he stood, stubbornly squared off over nothing. Doxycycline. It could be used to treat either a UTI or an STD; no help there, and only a gut feeling on the rest of it. "Foreman – "

"Let it go, okay?"

"If you're lying to me, then how will House get treatment?"

Foreman flared his nostrils and let his arm drop to rest on the counter, the script still pinched between two fingers. "Wilson, please. Just take the script and let it go, okay? There's nothing House needs to know that he doesn't already know." Again, Foreman held out the script he had written, but this time, a note of pleading had entered his eyes.

The suspicion returned full-force, but Wilson consented to snatch the script from Foreman's hand this time. "Is it Chlamydia?"

"The painful urination and discharge _is_ being caused by a urinary tract infection." Foreman's gaze bored holes into Wilson's, but he eventually looked down. "The Chlamydia's asymptomatic. Doxy will treat both of them."

Wilson screwed his mouth up under his nose in an attempt to reign in his sudden flare of temper, then scrubbed his hand over his face. Into his palm, he growled, "You're a son of a bitch." Then he dropped his hand and jabbed the script in Foreman's direction. "How the hell could you contemplate hiding that? If I have it, then House has it – "

"House already knew!" Foreman yelled.

Wilson lost his steam and backed down, shocked into silence.

"He came to me yesterday," Foreman bit out, clearly pissed at being forced to disclose the truth. "He asked me to lie to you, to tell you it was just a bladder infection. I told him no, but he got pissy about it… I was going to just tell you the truth anyway, but I changed my mind." He pressed his lips into a regretful line and peered up at Wilson from under lowered brows. "I didn't think it was worth ruining things for you two. If House doesn't care, then it doesn't matter. And I knew you'd just let your damn conscience get in the way if you knew the truth, and honestly, Wilson, you'd be an idiot for letting it."

"But it's a lie," Wilson snapped. "House knows it's a lie, I know it's a lie… He's doing exactly what I was afraid he'd do!"

"What, forgive you?" Foreman scoffed and shook his head as he redirected his gaze. "Man, you are something else." He looked back at Wilson and snapped, "Let him have his damn lie, Wilson. It's not hurting him."

"Yes, it is!" Wilson yelled back. "You can't see it, but it is! He's doing that ridiculous not-worth-any-better…_thing_ he always does!"

Foreman hesitated, then risked saying, "And you think he _is_ worth better than to have you cheat on him?"

"Yes!" Wilson made a belated, somewhat emphatic gesture in Foreman's direction and then spun around to glower out the window again. A second later, he let his forehead drop into his hand and shook it. "He won't stand up for himself. He thinks this is all he's entitled to."

Perhaps in vain, Foreman pointed out, "But you love each other."

"Yeah," Wilson breathed, defeated. "And he settles for that much because he's never gotten anything better."

Foreman rustled around near the counter behind him, and Wilson's eyes shifted to watch him in the reflection in the glass. "Wilson… He's not settling because he thinks he can't get someone better. He's settling because he doesn't _want_ someone better. You need to get over yourself long enough to see that. All he's doing is trying to preserve what he feels is his. If you fuck that up for him, _then_ you'll be a dick. Right now, you're just a clueless moron with a martyr complex."

Wilson blinked a few times at that, but by the time he worked up enough gumption to turn around, Foreman was already closing the door behind himself.

* * *

Wilson didn't really know whether or not to be dismayed when he went looking for House and couldn't find him. Again. It was barely closing time, and House hadn't said anything about leaving early. He had been adamantly against it, in fact. Nevertheless, when Wilson finally tracked down the fellows, Kutner apologetically informed him that House had packed up around three and skipped out, along with his motorcycle helmet. Wilson gathered his own things in slow motion, telling himself that it was about time House drove the stupid thing home, since it had been in the hospital garage for over a month now. Wilson didn't add, not consciously anyway, that on Friday his parking permit would technically expire along with his career at PPTH, so he had better get it home before Cuddy had it towed.

Speaking of, Wilson wandered out onto the balcony and stuck his nose to the conference room glass. From there, he could see through to part of House's office, far enough to verify his suspicion that House hadn't removed a single one of his personal items. Wilson pursed his lips as he withdrew, his eyes grazing Foreman and the kiddies on their way back to his own office. House didn't cope well with unexpected change. Hell, he didn't cope well with _any _change, gradual or not. Wilson made a mental note to ask Foreman to handle the cleanup, though Wilson had no idea where to store House's office paraphernalia without House finding it. If House didn't bring something home himself, then in his mind, it didn't belong in his home. Finding a box stuffed full of office toys hiding in a dark corner of his apartment would either piss him off or disturb him.

House didn't answer his cell when Wilson called, intending to gauge House's mood and pain level as a prelude to making dinner plans. If the leg had eased up, Wilson might have been able to tempt House out to a bar or a steakhouse. If it hadn't, he would stop for take-out on the way home. The transparent intention to appease House via food did not escape Wilson; he needed any advantage or brownie point he could get before he came clean, so to speak. In fact, he should find brownies; there was a bakery on the way home that House liked, and Wilson had bought him glazed croissants more than often enough to know that the man had a secret sweet tooth. Wilson really didn't know what would happen when he got home. Would House be receptive? Give him a chance to explain? Yell at him? Ignore him? Refuse to let him bring it up at all or insist that he drop it, or worse, choose to insist that the accidental cheating had simply never happened?

Wilson emphatically denied the bloom of anxiety in his gut insisted on reminding him that House had been having seizures that were still poorly controlled. He shouldn't have been driving at all, certainly not astride a two-wheeled, high-horsepower death machine. This on top of Wilson's stupid overactive brain, which kept spewing out unlikely scenarios about the upcoming heart-to-husk talk on fidelity versus House's board certification (the infectious disease one, although nephrology tied into the UTI… Wilson was having a House day, or something. It was a weird thought).

Wilson arrived home with a box of pastries to find House sprawled along the whole length of the couch in a twisted sort of question mark, his left arm trapped beneath his ribs while his right extended down toward his knee. It looked as if House had fallen asleep with his hand on his bad thigh, perhaps still clenching rhythmically over the remains of puckered tissue, only to have it slide off when he finally passed out. Wilson took in the old jeans clinging to his legs in what appeared to be a restrictive manner, the belt that House had shed on the floor, the gray button-down he had stuffed under his head as a makeshift pillow, random patches of sweat drying on his t-shirt… House had kicked off his right shoe, but not the left; he must not have been able to hold enough of his weight on his bad leg to toe off the other one at the door, and once he had hit the cushions, it had fled his mind.

House's cane lay abandoned on the floor in front the of the couch, within easy reach, and the scatter of meds all over the coffee table eventually yielded the empty packaging for a pre-measured dose of diazepam, the muscle relaxant. With that plus the House's usual dose of Vicodin swimming around in his system, it was no wonder House didn't rouse enough to answer the phone earlier. Wilson didn't bother making a mental note to remind House that he shouldn't knock himself out with no other person present because House wouldn't heed the warning anyway. Doctors.

Wilson removed House's remaining shoe, expecting him to burst upright at the disturbance, but House didn't even stir. Once he had placed both shoes on the mat and then shed his own as well, Wilson returned to the couch, brushed the medications into a neater pile on the coffee table, and then lifted House's right arm long enough to perch himself sideways on the couch with his left leg tucked under him, thigh nestled against House's chest. As he draped House's free arm over his own updrawn knee, Wilson noticed how rapidly House was breathing, rabbit-quick yet semi-deep respirations that Wilson could time by the oscillating pressure against his leg where House's ribcage expanded and contracted against him.

Wilson frowned at the lines creasing House's worn face, then pressed fingers to House's inner wrist. Even drugged to the gills and unconscious, there was pain enough to send House close to hyperventilation, his pulse hovering in the upper nineties. The breakthrough pain wasn't due to a conversion disorder, at least not this time, which cast the cause of every previous episode into doubt as well. Wilson wondered why House had recently taken to ascribing his more trying days to a trick of his mind; if that were all it was, then the pain would have disappeared the moment House went under. No conscious mind to fuck with, no psychosomatic pain. The nerve pain, the neuropathy…they weren't anomalies based on moodiness, except that perhaps a strum of tension in House's mind might translate to tenser muscles and therefore a slight upturn in baseline pain. This was simply House-normal, unconscious on the couch and still feeling the leg through a haze of drugs. It made Wilson lean closer to him, until he was almost laying over House's shoulder with his forehead cradled in the crook of House's neck. Wilson thought about apologizing for making him doubt his own pain _again_, stopped himself, and then said he was sorry anyway.

House stirred, startling Wilson into drawing back as if House might incinerate him for being caught in a blatant act of self-effacing affection. His movement prompted House to curl his fingers sharply over Wilson's thigh, as if to hold him there. Wilson hesitated, searching House's face for signs of waking, then sank back down to his original position. Beneath him, House's chest rumbled, and then House stretched minimally, rubbing his nose up the outside of Wilson's thigh until his could tuck it behind Wilson's knee. That couldn't be comfortable – House had pressed his face in so that every breath he took contained recycled air – but he appeared more relaxed now. Wilson began stroking House's hair before he could think about it.

"…hhhhmm…muff…'ils'n."

Wilson froze, but House didn't wake further, so after a few moments, Wilson resumed stroking his face, his temple, the scratchy line of his neck. He could feel the bullet scar under his fingertips more than see it, obscured by a patch of stubble that ran counter to the rest of the whiskers on his neck and faded as it was. House ticked under his hand again, but this time, Wilson refused to draw back and play innocent. He leaned harder over House's shoulder, gratified to feel House's hand clenching again over his thigh, and then Wilson replaced his lightly wandering fingers with his lips. He didn't know why he did it, exactly; he wasn't angling for seduction – wasn't even a little bit warmed to the notion – but it seemed a natural progression, and House wasn't resisting.

"Hm…" House's cheek pulled taut, and Wilson's eyes flickered to verify that it was a smile that graced House's face.

Wilson wanted to stay here like this indefinitely; he had nothing he would rather be doing, nowhere to go…he didn't really care about anything at all right now, not even House himself, just as long as he didn't have to move away.

House squirmed, just barely, and then emitted an unintelligible whine.

"Hey," Wilson whispered. He left off in the middle of a trail of absent kisses to lift his head and peer at House's anxious though mostly slack face. "Just me."

House grunted, then breathed a wispy series of syllables that more or less made up Wilson's name and something about cookies. He must have been able to smell the pastries that resided near the door; they were rather pungent, now that Wilson thought to notice.

"Yeah, I got you cookies." Wilson pecked the corner of House's mouth, then shifted to lean more against House's midsection, propping himself up with his fist in the cushions behind House's head. For no good reason, Wilson hesitated again, then touched his other hand to House's stubble as if measuring the turgidity of the skin underneath. "I would have driven you home, you know."

"Hmph." House pressed his cheek against Wilson's hand, his knees drawing up behind Wilson to hem him in. "'m'be good 'n get a cookie."

Wilson laughed under his breath; House was really out of it. "Yeah, buddy. If you be a good boy, I'll even let you have cookies for dinner."

The expected dopey smile never came. House's face took on a troubled countenance instead, his eyes still closed. "Haffa be good…don' be a fag."

Wilson stopped moving altogether, even paused his breathing, his hand frozen in place against House's prickly jaw. "Are you awake?"

House snuffed, then hiccupped lightly before he let his next exhale carry a faint, bleary denial. Then he added, as if he were trying to convince Wilson of it, "s'okay…I don' wanna be a fag anyway."

Wilson frowned. Stoned off his gourd, yes; but not truly asleep. Or at least, Wilson didn't think so. Uncertain and yet curious to know how House might answer in this unwittingly honest state, Wilson inquired, "Why don't you want to be a fag?"

Immediately, House replied, "Hurts." Then he squirmed, restless, and clawed lightly at Wilson's leg.

"I'm not going anywhere," Wilson assured him. He cupped House's face and took to running his thumb in tiny circles around House's cheekbone. House settled without further distress. "What hurts? Your leg? I think you've had too many drugs already, but I could get you the heating pad."

Ever so softly, House moaned, "No," his features pinching in an ambiguous reflection of whatever he thought was going on right now.

"You know it helps," Wilson argued, but he didn't sound committed to that assertion.

"No," House protested again, his voice light like a soufflé. Then he mumbled, "Nob'dy wantsa fag. Mom duzn wanna fag inner house."

Wilson's throat clicked as he swallowed, eyes stinging, and breathed, "Oh."

"Notta fag, Wils'n."

Wilson pulled away and stood up, House's hand sliding from his leg in the process. He couldn't explain why hearing that foul word uttered in House's sweet, sleepy little boy voice should disconcert him so much.

Small and pitchy, House whined out an approximation of Wilson's name, his fingers groping the couch cushion where Wilson's warmth still lingered.

"Go back to sleep," Wilson enjoined.

More urgent now, House moaned, "Wilson…" His fingers depressed the edge of the couch cushion, searching.

Against his will, Wilson reached down to smooth the creases over House's brow. "I have to take a shower, okay? Just sleep."

House rolled as far as the back of the couch allowed, chin lifting in the process until he could stuff his nose against Wilson's offered palm. A puff of hot air bathed Wilson's fingers when House gave a groggy sigh.

"Sleep, House." Wilson let the tip of his index finger linger on House's lips before he withdrew, watching carefully to make sure that House wouldn't get upset again. As an afterthought, Wilson shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over House's shoulders, his chest tightening when House snuggled into it and weakly grasped the sleeve with a tiny, contented rumble percolating in his throat.

Unable to stay there any longer, his sought-after peaceful moment shattered by a few drug-induced honesties, Wilson quietly escaped to the bedroom. He only actually took a shower because it gave him a plausible excuse for avoiding the living room that much longer. It wasn't so much that he wanted something to tell House if House woke up wondering why the hell he was hiding; rather, Wilson wanted something to tell himself so that he didn't feel like he was abandoning his best friend to the couch and whatever bad half-waking dreams he might be having.

Almost half an hour and all the hot water later, Wilson padded back out into the living room with a towel cinched around his waist, the damp skin of his legs and chest breaking out in goose pimples as he left the steamy bathroom behind in favor of wandering around in a swirl of chilly apartment air. The flickering of the television nearly knocked Wilson out of his wits; it was on mute. Once he recovered enough not to have a heart attack, Wilson approached and peered over the back of the couch. House glanced away from the silent screen to blink at Wilson, his features slack and still mostly fuzzed on the tide of diazepam, and then he went back to staring at a celebrity news show of some sort. House had twisted Wilson's suit jacket up against his chest like a teddy bear, and as Wilson shuffled off toward the kitchen, he watched House duck his nose into it and round his back a little more.

Wilson set a pot of water to boil for making pasta, then went back to the bathroom to discard the towel and find clothes while the water heated. Finding House in the bedroom en route nearly scared the crap out of him. Had he really been in the kitchen_ that _long? "House."

Evidently, Wilson wasn't the only jumpy one amongst the two of them. House had his nose buried in the closet, and Wilson's voice startled him enough that he had to catch himself on the door jamb as he straightened. "Jesus, Wilson."

Wilson hooked a thumb at himself. "Jew."

House had turned back to the closet, but he glanced over his shoulder with a ghost of a smile and corrected, "_Elijah_, Wilson."

Wilson snickered in spite of himself. "I expected Moses, myself."

"Moses is boring," House replied as he went back to rummaging through the clothes hanging in the closet. "All he did was get altitude sickness and hear voices. Elijah got abducted by aliens."

"Um." Wilson scratched his forehead. "Okay, then."

House smirked over his shoulder, his eyes still glassy from the remnants of the drug cocktail filtering through his system. Then he turned back to glower at the selection of clothes arrayed before him. Wilson figure House didn't remember what he had said to Wilson on the couch, or else that he thought the exchange a dream. Since Wilson had no desire to rehash it, he merely waited for House to explain what he was doing in here, browsing through the closet like a teenage girl looking for something acceptable to wear on a date.

After ruffling the contents of the closet one last time, House cocked his hip to brace his weight on his left side, and then stuck his right hand on his hip, lounging with his left forearm planted against the door jamb. "I seriously hate to say this out loud, but we need to go shopping." House bounced on his good leg once, then craned his neck to look at Wilson. "No? Because I'm perfectly okay with looking like a hobo."

Wilson furrowed his brow. "And that's new, how?"

"For the civil union, moron." House scoffed through his teeth as if he couldn't believe Wilson was so dense. "I don't have a nice suit, there is no way in hell I'll actually wear a tuxedo – not even if _you_ promise to show up naked – and you won't fit into your fancy suits anymore." He peered over his shoulder again to eye Wilson up and down, then explained, "Urban spread." He pantomimed the idea of Wilson's paunchy middle and somehow implied its pleasant squishiness at the same time – _scrunch-scrunch_ with both hands. Actually, House managed to convey a singular degree of lewdness with the gesture.

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Cute, House."

House widened his eyes in exaggerated innocence. _Who, me?_

"You're not fooling anyone," Wilson teased, but the lighthearted mood only lasted until House faced the closet again. "We need to talk."

House sighed, his jaw clenching momentarily. "Did you get a script from Foreman?"

"…yeah."

"Then no, we don't. Your mom's been calling, by the way. Like six times today; I left the messages on the machine. Doesn't sound like anything's wrong; she just hasn't heard from you since the shooting, and your line at Amber's place has been disconnected." He bit the inside of his cheek, then admitted, "That one might _kinda_ be my fault. Did you know you were wasting like fifty bucks a month on a phone you never use? You're a moron. Everybody calls you here anyway."

Wilson squinted, but with his nose. "You had my phone disconnected?" And this surprised him, why?

"Dude. I saved you fifty bucks a month."

Wilson planted one hand on his hip, the other waggling in the air in a wait-a-sec gesture. "Would this favor to me – and I use the term _favor _lightly – by any chance coincide with that day we suddenly started getting the skin channels with our cable package?"

House gave an exaggerated shrug. "Who knows these things for sure?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and then settled his slightly exasperated gaze on the baseboard next to House's foot. "House, I'm serious. We need to ta – "

"Are you inviting them?" House glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide and yet guarded, warning Wilson off with feigned normalcy. "Your parents, I mean. I was thinking maybe I should tell my mom, but I don't really think I want her to show up; she's not into the whole rainbow parade thing." He paused as if this assertion required sober reconsideration, and then amended, "Unless there are unicorns involved; pretty sure she'd love those. Who wouldn't?"

"House – "

"It's probably too late to get your folks up here, but I was thinking about it. You haven't told them anything yet, though; might be a bad idea, what with Jews being allergic to the gay thing, or whatever that Dude-eronomy guy said."

"House," Wilson rebuked softly. "You can't get out of this."

From House's posture, and the slight bowing of his head, Wilson could tell that he was scrunching his nose up in annoyance. "It was an accident. It'll never happen again. Drop it."

"House – "

"We were on a break." House's fingers tightened on the door jamb.

Wilson looked down for a second, then gazed sadly up at House from under his bangs. "That wasn't a break, and you know it."

House didn't react right away, at least not noticeably. After about fifteen seconds, he finally said, "Oh." And then he stepped back far enough to shoulder the closet door shut. "Okay."

Wilson stared at his back. "Okay? That's…that's it?"

House kept his back to Wilson as he reached for the dresser to steady himself. "Yeah," he replied, his voice clipped. "Fine."

"P-hu…" Wilson adopted his superman pose as if it could protect him from House-bullets, suspicious and a little put off. "House – "

"I get it!" House snapped. "You don't really want to do it. I'm fine with that." Under his breath, he added, "Could have just said so."

"Could've just said _what_?" Wilson squinted at House's hunched shoulders, then ordered, "Turn around."

Petulant even in his posture, House snipped, "No."

"_Turn around_."

"Just go, Wilson. I'll even help you pack."

Wilson pranced and wished he didn't have to do this wearing nothing but a bath towel. "That's it? You're kicking me out?"

"Wouldn't want to inconvenience you with useless displays of pathetic emotions. I'm sure you get sick of the post break-up fights anyway; they can be so tedious."

Wilson's mouth moved for a moment without actually forming words.

House waited for a few seconds, then sucked in an angry breath and shouted, "What, you expect me to cry? Just get out!"

Wilson gave a start, and then sucked in a horrified breath. House thought Wilson was relieved because the STD gave him a reasonable excuse to call off the civil union. He thought Wilson had only proposed out of pity after all. House _wanted_ to marry him. A lot. "Jesus…you were serious."

House started to retort even though he probably didn't know what Wilson meant by that, but nothing came out. He seemed to shrink into himself as he rested more weight against the dresser.

A tiny hurt bloomed deep in Wilson's chest, but he sought to ignore it. "Why didn't you just say – "

"Like I can do that," House snapped, his breathing harsh. "Do you even know me?"

Wilson took a single, cautious step closer and begged, "Please look at me."

House merely shook his head and looked at the floor. "Figures. You can't change, I can't change…you're still a hypocrite, I'm still a stubborn – "

" – ass who won't shut up long enough to just _listen_ to the words coming out of my mouth!" Wilson accompanied that with a two-handed spewing gesture even though it was lost on House, seeing as how he refused to so much as glance at Wilson.

House raised his free hand and gouged his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose. "Will you just leave already? You've got your excuse; just go."

"No!" Wilson yelled, appalled. "I don't need an excuse." He regarded House as if he couldn't believe that House didn't know better. "I told you before; you can't get rid of me."

"Then what, Wilson? Should I beg?" House fisted the hand he had braced on the dresser, keeping his face hidden behind his upraised arm. More forcefully, enough so that his whole frame shook, House demanded, "What the hell do you want from me?"

"What do you think I want from you? I want _you_ from you. Why don't you get that?"

"That's not an answer," House barked back. "It's a cheap pickup line. You don't want me – you never wanted me. You want a nice, happy, fluffy doctor who does his job and solves impossible cases. Well, I can't do my job anymore, Wilson. It's over – you don't get that House anymore. He's dead, so give it up. I don't know why you're even still here – I never know, Wilson. So just leave; I'm not making you stay."

Wilson closed the distance between them and let his hand creep up to grip House's shoulder. "_Look_ at me."

House ducked his face away yet again, but more in defeat this time than defiance. "No."

Wilson took a deep breath and let his hand slip off; House seemed relieved to have it gone. "Sit down, House."

"I don't need you to coddle me, and you don't have to justify it to appease my bruised ego. I'm fine. But I'm not going to sit here while you play your damn game and make yourself feel better about walking out. Just grow a pair, and leave."

"You're not listening to me. I don't want to end anything."

House ducked his head and then made a point of staring far off to the right at the seam of the closet door, where the sleeve of one of their shirts had gotten caught in the jamb. "Fine. Okay, Wilson. If you want to keep being friends or something, then fine. It was a mistake to start having sex with each other. We don't ever have to talk about this. We'll just pretend you didn't come back from grievance leave until tomorrow. Just…go away until then. I'll find you for lunch."

Wilson stared at him, a fine broil working its way up from his gut, and then he finally exploded, "One screw up, and you're ending it? What the hell is that?" Wilson studied him for a minute, taking in the fine tremble and the off-putting posture, the regrouping behind crepe paper walls, as if Wilson couldn't tell exactly how he felt – as if he actually thought he could deny how much an off-the-cuff proposal had really meant to him, and now it was over, and he couldn't hide how much it hurt. "House – "

"It's fine; I told you." House's words came out thick, though – anything but fine. "You don't owe me. I'll find some other way."

"This isn't some passive-aggressive bid to find an out. House, I lo – "

"I didn't pay you to say that."

Wilson licked his lips, but his mouth had gone too dry for it to help. "_What_?"

"You're not obligated just because I dropped some cash on you. I've lost more on ponies. You don't have to make up for it."

House thought Wilson felt obligated on account of the payoff? Could he truly be that insecure? That _blind_? All he managed to _say_, however, was, "Bullshit. If you'd ever lost that much, I would've heard about it. You would have asked me for cash."

House rolled his head back on his neck and groaned at the ceiling. "You fixate on _that_?"

"Only because the rest is too absurd for me to wrap my head around."

House shook his head, just once, and then dropped his gaze. "Look, it's fine," he said, his voice barely a rasp in the dim room. "I don't care, okay? It doesn't matter."

Wilson tipped his head to the side and caught a glimpse of glitter at the edge of House's cornea. "It matters. House, it matters."

"God, _stop it_, already!" House begged. He finally gave up any pretense of holding himself together and snuffed, cringing at the phlegm-laden quality of the sound. "I told you; I don't need excuses. If you want to go, then just go. I'll be okay – it's not like I don't have options."

"House…" Wilson stepped into his personal space and tried not to react when House flinched. "It was a big deal to you, wasn't it."

"Don't be stupid," House breathed, but the subtle quiver of one corner of his mouth gave him away. "Since when do I – "

"God – will you _please_ just look at me?"

"No!" House's whole frame shook with the conviction of that word.

Wilson grabbed House by the chin and forced his head around. House stubbornly refused to meet his gaze, but there was more than enough in his face, in the sheen of wetness covering his irises, to tell Wilson everything he needed to know. He let House go, his chest aching behind his breastbone as he watched House's gaze flicker away at random.

House inhaled a shuddering draught and tried to say something as the air rushed out again, but nothing intelligible made its way from his lips. He went on panting instead and lowered his eyes even farther, hiding in the shadow cast by his own downcast countenance.

"God damn you," Wilson snapped.

House's mouth worked in silence as the thinly constructed façade cracked, and then he averted his gaze again. This time, the moisture broke free, and Wilson watched a single drop of saline trace a thinning line down over his cheekbone. "Yeah," House replied. His voice shook this time, and it didn't seem like House cared enough to try to cover up for it. "I shouldn't have played along; it was stupid, okay? I'm sorry."

All Wilson wanted to do was put a stop to this whole thing – or smack some sense into him – but he couldn't help a certain morbid fascination with the tear track on House's face, and the utter conviction with which he tore himself down, right there in front of Wilson – the flimsy bid to pretend that he had any control over this thing erupting between them, that it didn't matter, that he didn't care when it was obvious that he did, and that it hurt more than he knew what to do with.

"You don't have to stand there," House snapped, but the effect was sort of ruined by the weak, raspy tone caused by the way he still couldn't quite catch his breath. "I'm fine. I knew it would happen eventually; you don't have to pretend anymore."

Wilson drew in a soft but deep breath, then let it out slowly. Once he had sufficiently calmed his own racing heart, Wilson fixed an unforgiving glare on the top of House's head, and snapped, "_You_ stop pretending. I'm sick of you acting like you could just as easily do without me. This _matters_ to you, and you can't even admit that. What do you think I would do, House? If you just told me the simple truth, what do you honestly think I would do?"

House glanced at Wilson's bare feet and then wilted a bit.

"God, you really don't have a clue what I'm saying, do you." Since it wasn't actually a question, Wilson didn't pause for a response. "You really believe that tripe. You think you're not good for anything but being a doctor – that you're a fool for ever hoping I might actually want you without that part – might commit to you in public. You actually think that the only way to get me to stay long-term is to guilt me into it over that stupid payoff, except you won't, because it would make this whole thing a farce."

House's face creased in several places: confusion.

Wilson nodded, confirming it to himself if to no one else. Then he asserted, "You're an idiot."

House looked at him, shook his head, and then went stock still, unblinking as he turned to examine Wilson for some evidence of what the hell he _really _meant. Not what he said, which House evidently still couldn't trust, even at this late stage of their friendship, but the truth. The thing was, Wilson didn't have any secret truth to offer. There was no hidden truth, no agenda, nothing beyond the surface for once. After a bare ten seconds of scrutiny, House dropped his eyes, chin tucked as he pondered whatever he had extrapolated from Wilson's face, and then he faced the closet door again.

Wilson smashed his face into his palm, groaned in frustration, and then threw his hands to either side. "You are not allowed to give me the silent treatment this time, House. I can make you talk."

Empty threat though it was, House still responded. "It was an accident, okay? A stupid fucking accident. You want me to apologize? Fine: I'm sorry. I should have told you, okay? But I just got you back, and I didn't want you to call it off again. I was just scared. Fucking…pathetic, okay? _That's_ the truth. I was scared."

It took Wilson a second to absorb that. "Wait. _You're_ sorry?" Then he paused to adjust his towel, frowning at the closet door while he tucked in a corner of terrycloth. It really was a fascinating door; no wonder House didn't want to look away from it.

House made a frustrated, angry sound and growled, "No, asshole; I'm not sorry at all. In fact, I'm glad I'm such a loser that I even have to pay for rebound sex."

Wilson squinted harder. "What are you talking about?"

Finally, House dragged himself far enough out of his self-absorbed reverie to register the other half of the conversation. He peeked warily past his arm if not directly at Wilson. "What are _you_ talking about?"

"I'm…not sure. Are you saying you cheated on me?"

In profile, House's eyelashes flickered, and then he exchanged a quick, bewildered glance with Wilson. "I thought… Foreman didn't… What did Foreman tell you?"

"That I have a urinary tract infection." Wilson scowled right afterwards, though, and propped his hands on his hips. "He's a crappy liar, by the way. I would have thought he'd have learned something from you by now."

"He's fighting it," House replied with a shaky note of bewildered levity. "Doesn't want to become the Duke of Darkness, remember?"

"Yeah." Wilson twiddled a few fingers between their tensely held positions, peripherally amused to note the shadow-puppet duck that he unintentionally projected on the wall. "You cheated on me."

"We were on a break," House protested weakly.

Wilson fought hard not to let that tiny flare of outraged betrayal leak out onto his face, his mind skipping back to how it had felt when Julie had given him that news and then tossed him out. He knew it wasn't the same – he understood House's ideas on infidelity and how confessions meant you actually hated your rightful partner and wanted out. But it still made him feel like cheap, second-rate leftovers to have been cheated on by a man who had never intended to come clean about it. "A break. How do you figure?"

"Um." House continued staring over his shoulder like a deer speared by a spotlight, ready to either bolt or stroke out. "Because you told me we should stop wasting each other's time, and I should go bang Cuddy instead because you and I have no future, and she's got bouncier breasts than you do." It sounded more like a question than a response.

"Are you serious?" Wilson could hear the giddy note enter his voice halfway through the question, but he couldn't tell if it was a prelude to anger or something else. In fact, he had no idea what he felt at that moment. "You're making your infidelity _my_ fault?"

"You told me to!" House shouted, but a tiny tremble underlaid the muted fury. "You said we had to stop – you tried to foist me off on Cuddy – what did you expect me to do?"

Wilson gaped. "You actually _slept_ with…_Cuddy_ gave you Chlamydia?! You gave me Cuddy cooties!"

"What?"

"You told me you didn't want her!"

"I don't!"

"Then why the hell did you sleep with her?"

"I didn't! What the fuck?"

Wilson gave a flustered huff, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet, and then snapped, "What?" Because that was pretty much the sum of their whole conversation so far.

"Okay," House replied slowly. "We have a disconnect here."

Wilson merely glared at him. "Obviously…wait. Wait, wait. The thing about Cuddy…I said that in, like…November, House."

As if he couldn't be sure that Wilson was entirely in his right mind, House grunted, "Uh-huh. I remember." Then he bobbed his head and added a dry, "Since I was there, and all." Then he narrowed his eyes. "What, you thought I _just_ did it? Where would I have hidden a woman, Wilson? You're always here."

"Not the week after the shooting." Wilson leaned forward on his toes, incredulous, and brushed the commentary off with a flick of his hand. "The month of brush-offs in January...you playing hard to get, avoiding me, acting like I wasn't licking your ear on the couch… That was a treatment period. You caught the clap and didn't tell me. Your _unprotected sexual partner_."

"I didn't know, you jackass! It was asymptomatic. Do you actually think I'd give you an STD on purpose?"

"If the alternative is fessing up, then yes!"

"Oh, please."

"Who was it?"

Instead of answering, House flung his head to one side and sneered, "Get off your high horse, Cheaty McPantyPeeler."

"_Who was it!?_"

"No one!" House shouted back. "It was a god damn hooker, okay? You weren't there, I was bored – "

"Oh, right. Bored." Wilson shook his head, half aware of the way his jittery legs were sort of vibrating him to the left. Then he abruptly accused, "You gave me hooker germs!"

"You dumped me!"

Just to mock House's patented rebuke to clinic patients, Wilson snorted and demanded, "What, you've never seen an after-school special? Dawson's Creek? You're an idiot!"

"It was an accident!" House insisted again, vehement and completely undone. "The damn condom broke."

"And that didn't _maybe_ tip you off to the fact that you should get screened _before_ you waltzed into my office and begged me to sodomize you?"

"I didn't think I had to! The agency screens all their people – they guarantee they're clean!"

Wilson gaped, then shrieked, "You gave me hooker germs!" As if he hadn't already made that point.

"Oh, grow up, you damn prude."

"From a hooker. You gave me prostitute parasites, House. _Cooties_, in the most etymologically correct sense of the word."

House merely skewed an eyebrow at that one.

Wilson merely went on seething, prancing off to spin in a circle while his outstretched arms collected his thoughts from the air. "And after you found out about it, did it ever occur to you that it might be something that I – _the guy you had sex with twelve times a week_ – might need to be privy to?"

Subdued in a marked counterpoint to Wilson's barely contained fury, House replied, "I tested you when I found out. You were still clean; there was no reason to bother telling you after that." He didn't need to remind Wilson that at that point, they had only ridden bareback perhaps twice, so that if Wilson hadn't already caught it by then, he would remain clean. And Wilson could only guess at how House had obtained a 'sample' to screen him with. House frowned as if he could see the gears turning in Wilson's head, running over a list of places from which House may have obtained a sample, and then he offered, completely unnecessarily, "The first course of antibiotics must not have knocked it all out."

Wilson's head bobbled like a smurf on crack. "That's brilliant, House. You really are some kind of genius."

"Hey – you're the one who tied me to a damn chair. Not my fault you couldn't keep your grubby mitts off my hot bod." But then his eyes flickered as if he were replaying the past several minutes in his head. "Wait. You didn't know it was me." He turned a stricken look on Wilson, though he had muted it somehow; it showed in the dimmer patches of blue in his eyes. "What, you thought it was _you_? Since when did…you… The week after the shooting? You…Wilson…"

The stark shock on House's face cooled the better part of Wilson's anger. Before House could jump to the inevitable conclusion, Wilson explained, "I got piss-ass drunk the night you came to my apartment looking for me." He swallowed the lingering hint of shame over the thought of what might have happened that night while House had stood in the middle of his living room, hoping he would show up. "I blacked out and woke up in somebody else's bed."

House blinked and swallowed hard, then had to try twice to point out, "You can't get it up when you're drunk."

"I know," Wilson replied. He felt his face flushing a bit and sheepishly added, "I figured I must have found a way."

"But…" House shook his head and looked away only because he was probably developing a crick, straining his neck for so long to look at Wilson without turning around. "This whole thing…you were going to tell me about it. If it was an accident, why try to tell me? You only confess to affairs when you want the other party to get pissed and throw you out. It's a passive-aggressive way to break up with someone."

Wilson blinked several times in rapid succession. "Is that why you didn't tell me about the hooker?"

House scowled at nothing. "Duh. Nitwit. There was no reason for you to know. I _thought_."

Wilson balked, then blinked, his cheek twitching in annoyance at the flippant edge to House's tone. "Well, for one thing, I figured you might want to know about the _STD_ I thought I'd given you. Jerk." Wilson fumed in silence for a few seconds, eyes trained blankly on a pile of dirty laundry, and then he admitted, "I didn't think I'd be able spike enough of your food to get a full course of doxycycline in you."

Thankfully, House gave an amused snort to that.

Wilson smiled weakly at House's back. "So, um. I guess it's a good thing I only have a UTI." He pointedly raised his eyebrows and added a hopeful, "What a coincidence, seeing as how you have one too." When House pivoted to glare at him, Wilson shrugged. "What?"

"I already know you're lying, dipshit."

"So? I know you're lying too. It's a collaborative lie." Wilson held his arms out and explained, his voice sharp, "This is what people do, House. They selectively overlook transgressions in the interests of not throwing cookware at each other in the heat of an argument over who's to blame for who's raunchy rendezvous with the pool boy."

House looked away, and then lowered his head as he shook it, a confused smirk showing by default in glimmers around his mouth. "But…"

"Fine. If that doesn't work for you, we can say that you were out jogging – "

House snorted.

" – and you really had to take a leak. So you dropped trou' at the edge of a duck pond, and all those clap bacteria leapt up your pee stream like horny salmon to spawn on your dick. True story."

Wilson imagined that House was only borderline laughing because he had no idea what else to do. In spite of the outward evidence of mirth, House obviously didn't find their usual witticisms amusing right now.

"We both fucked up," Wilson summarized, an edge of desperation lacing the inadvertent pun. "So…we're even. We play for a tie breaker." When House just continued standing there in a freeze frame, Wilson sighed and scrubbed one hand down the side of his face. "Say something."

House studied something on the wall that only he could see. "I don't know what you're doing right now."

"I'm endeavoring to smooth things over between us." Wilson let an expectant pause slide by, then inquired casually, "Is it working?"

House chewed his cheek for a second, then remarked, "Tie breaker, huh?"

Wilson offered a cautious grin. "That's right. Back in the game, playing extra inn– "

"This isn't a game, asshole," House growled.

The unexpected bitterness caught Wilson off guard. As such, he merely stood there in stunned silence as House hemmed and hawed, threw a death glare at the closet door, and then brushed past Wilson to escape the bedroom. Wilson listened to the dissynchrony of his footsteps moving off toward the living room, then set about dressing himself in sleep pants and a t-shirt, his movements halting and somewhat clumsy. After he pulled the shirt over his head, he realized that it was one of House's band tees, and then he wondered if maybe he wouldn't be better off pulling on public clothes in preparation for House tossing him bodily out of the apartment. Actually, Wilson had no real idea what they were doing right now, aside from the fact that it was awkward and it felt like a fight. But he and House didn't fight like this; neither of them were breaking things yet, physical or otherwise.

Out in the living room, House began plunking out random notes on the piano, but by the time Wilson had shuffled down the hall to poke his head around the corner, the tones had resolved themselves into something that Wilson swore came from a Hitchcock film. Or maybe that show with the screwy detective…Monk? Whatever. House glanced up as Wilson appeared in his line of sight, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline, and then he focused back on the keys. The song settled into a more certain rhythm as Wilson watched, and then House began embellishing the simple melody as only he could do. It turned slightly jazzy.

Wilson stared at House for a moment, expectant of God knew what, and then he heaved a resigned sigh, one hand bunching muscles and skin at the back of his neck. "Should I be packing?"

His voice tight, House returned, "Do you want to?"

"Not really. But if you're going to brood all night and make me feel superfluous – "

"Little Jimmy Wilson, can't abide conflict," House sang under his breath, right along with the melody his fingers picked out. "So quick to pack up his toys and run home to mommy." Then, to Wilson, "Don't blame me for your inability to commit to a course of action. If you want to go, then go. Otherwise, sit down and shut up about it."

Wilson glanced aside, at a loss, and then trudged over to the couch. The leather hissed as it gave way to his weight, like an angry snake. "I know it's just an empty phrase, but I'm sorry I cheated on you."

Before Wilson could go on with the canned lines about how he couldn't keep it in his pants, and he didn't expect forgiveness, and he would make amends somehow, House broke in with a gentle, matter-of-fact, "You didn't cheat on me." There were no emotional overtones to that; House merely said it.

Wilson breathed out long and slow, and at the end of the exhale, replied, "…okay."

House paused to peer over the empty sheet music stand at Wilson's confused pose. Then he ducked back down; his voice came out slightly muffled by the objects between his mouth and Wilson's ears. "You were drunk, ergo, no way you stuck your one-eyed Jimmy anyplace it shouldn't have gone. Sleeping with someone else in the literal sense doesn't mean anything unless you slept with them in the euphemistic sense too. And by euphemistic sense, I mean her ankles were crossed behind your head and you – "

"Okay! I get it." Wilson's eyebrows bunched together in the middle. "In that case, I'm sorry I yelled at you for sleeping with a hooker after I told you I was never having sex with you again."

House's head bobbed with the random melody he wove out of nothing. "Apology accepted."

Wilson's head dipped on his neck as he scrutinized what little he could see of House's half-obscured face. "You don't _sound _accepting."

House shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "How am I supposed to sound?"

"Wh… Will you stop doing that?" Wilson jabbed his forehead into his palm and then turned sideways so that he could face House, his elbow propped on the back of the couch, while House played peek-a-boo over the piano. "You're supposed to sound like _you_, House. You're supposed to be unreasonably pissy, and then you're supposed to mock my fidelity issues, call me a hypocrite, and ignore me for an hour as if everything is entirely my fault."

"Why?" House inquired, his tone infuriatingly bland. "Would my blaming you without corroborative evidence make you feel better? A little Jewish guilt heaped on top of whatever else is going on in your head? I'm the one who dirtied your dick; you didn't make me call up a hooker when I was too much of a pathetic, lazy, terrified ninny to just hunt you down and have a conversation."

Wilson gaped. "What the hell are you doing? Are you messing with me? Is this some new method of torture that you devised between the bedroom and here?"

House pressed his lips together, scrunching them up under his nose, his face dark and guarded, yet strangely devoid of deceit. "Yep. I'm using plain honesty to screw with your head. And by 'screw with your head,' I mean I'm just fucking with you." He glanced up at Wilson long enough to pull his mouth up to one side in an abbreviated, cold smirk. "You implied I should just tell you the truth. What do you think of it?" Then he fell back to brooding over the piano keys, his fingers stuttering into silence as Wilson waited for some other, better explanation. It wasn't long in coming; even House reached a point where candidness was the last and only resort. His voice so hushed that Wilson barely understood him, House growled, "I don't get you." He said it resentfully, as if the last thing he wanted was to be forced into that admission, a child throwing a hissy fit at being made to apologize even though he knows he was wrong.

Wilson straightened. "What do you mean?"

Nothing moved in the vicinity of the piano, so Wilson dropped his temple to the arm he had rested along the back of the couch, peering across the room sideways. His eyes met House's just as House was dropping his head down toward the piano, hiding behind the empty music stand to stab at one or two keys like a clueless, bored child. "Maybe getting married is a bad idea."

"Don't start that shit." Wilson rolled his eyes back to the ceiling, and then squeezed them shut for a moment in the hopes of working up moisture enough to lubricate his irritated corneas.

A minute passed, and then House abruptly demanded, "What do you want me to do, Wilson? Just tell me. I don't care what it is, just…fucking say it already. I'm sick of this evasion bullshit."

"Wow," Wilson chuckled humorlessly. "Greg House, tired of vague deflections? That's a first."

"Suck it."

That time, Wilson's short laugh was genuine.

"Wilson, I'm serious. I've been trying to figure you out for over a decade, and I can't. I don't know what you want from me."

Wilson raised an eyebrow and peered at the fuzzy crown of House's head where it crested the edge of the sheet music stand. "I thought you liked that about me."

House raised his head just enough for his eyes to show in slits over the black lacquered edge. He looked shifty, as if he were getting ready to sling flaming oil skins at Wilson's head the moment his defenses cracked. "Fuck the puzzle; it's a load of crap anyway. I want to know."

Wilson hesitated, reluctant for some reason, then decided on a flippant response as he averted his gaze. "Knowing is boring.

With perfect gravity, House informed him, "_You_ could never be boring."

Wilson swallowed, his eyes blinking a few times at the corner of the ceiling.

"Why are you even here? I gave you an STD and then lied about it, and you're acting like _you_ fucked up by catching it. Why aren't you pissed at me for not warning you?"

"Because it was an accident, and I've fucked up enough to know how it feels to be there. Besides, I never should have pushed you away, and I'm sorry I didn't see how much the whole dare-sex-on-the-couch thing ended up meaning to you."

House let out a rather mean snort. "You knew," he asserted.

"No, I – "

House merely whispered, "Liar." Soft as it was, the word cut through the room like a whip; a monsoon could not have drowned it out. House clucked his tongue, then inhaled a huge breath only to expel it as an affectedly apathetic sigh. "Whatever; doesn't matter. I still don't get you. You get nothing out of this."

There was no reason for Wilson to take that as a threat, and yet he did feel threatened by it. This was the sort of exchange they should never risk having. Ever. It was the exact reason they avoided actual conversation at all costs; if it couldn't be inferred based on behavior, then it was too dangerous to acknowledge at all. Wilson grimaced at the piano since House had ducked behind it to hide again, and then demanded, "What, House? You actually want me to come up with a logical reason for why I love you? Something…what, empirical? Something you can stick under a Bunsen burner and distil down to its constituent parts?"

For once, House ignored the semi-forbidden L-word and shrugged off Wilson's ire. "Why not? I found a monetary value for our platonic friendship. It stands to reason I should be able to measure this too You already told me you have limits; I just have to find them."

Wilson snorted. "Since when did you find the actual monetary value of our friendship? The last time I looked, I just stopped loaning you obscene amounts of money to avoid encouraging you."

House didn't answer right away, but when he did, his voice had gone tellingly soft, and a little hoarse. "Seven weeks' salary, the Blue Book value of your car, your savings and the available balances on your open credit card accounts, plus seven weeks' worth of hotel fees and various living expenses."

A few seconds passed, and then Wilson lowered his gaze to find House staring over the piano at him again, just a tuft of spiky, mussed hair over a pair of shuttered blue eyes.

"That's how much he had to seize or block before you folded."

"Tritter?" Wilson asked, his voice weak.

House gave a minute nod. "The friendship is worth roughly one hundred eighteen thousand dollars, plus punitive damages in the form of pain and suffering of the patients you couldn't properly treat when he suspended your script writing privileges." He lifted one shoulder as he looked away, a hint of self-loathing obscured behind a façade of indifference. "Didn't expect that much."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but only because his heart had clawed its way up to poke his tonsils. He could tell, at that moment, that House had spent five years living with a lawyer; he sounded like one listing out grievances at a deposition. "For god's sake. House, you can't just put a price on – "

"_You_ did."

"First off, no. I didn't. There were other things to consider, like you being so desperate for a fix that you stole a dead man's pills and then overdosed on them. Second – "

"No, _first_ off, I didn't want a fix as much as I wanted to gnaw my own damn leg off. You _saw_ me. I would have used pruning sheers if I could have sterilized them well enough. Second, I didn't overdose – "

"Because of a technicality. You threw everything up."

House flared his nostrils, bounced his good leg on the pedal a few times, and then repeated, "I didn't overdose, Wilson."

Wilson scoffed. "Just because you didn't _actually_ die, doesn't mean you didn't throw down way more oxy than you should have – "

"You're not listening to me!" House snapped. Then he quieted abruptly, eyes darting about as if he were considering ending this whole thing by fleeing the scene. He apparently decided against it, because he shifted to face the piano keys again, plinked out a few notes, and then explained, his voice low and heavy, "Overdose implies an accidental consumption. When it's on purpose, people call it something else."

Wilson's jaw went slack, his chest hollowed out like a scooped melon.

Safely out of sight behind the piano, House fidgeted with keys and pedals, then mumbled, "I was kidding myself. Thought maybe…for once, there wouldn't be a measurable value. And then there was."

"Jesus, House."

"You topped everybody else, at least." House huffed a breath of laughter, but it merely added to the grim atmosphere. "I'm kind of impressed. I just can't figure out why it was so high. I figure the cripple card must give me a pity boost, but wow."

Wilson shook his head, helplessly mute and appalled to be listening to this.

"Stacy didn't really invest anything more than furniture, and she got a place to crash…actually, I think she's the cheapest; she bought me some skis for Christmas once, and a cool pair of motorcycle gloves after the infarction so I wouldn't get chafe marks from the wheelchair spokes, but there was no actual loss of property or currency involved in our relationship. We practically _lived_ Dutch. Crandall topped out at one bad football bet and a clunky old Buick that I accidentally drove into a ditch. Cuddy might be up there with you because of all the shit she lets me get away with, but the value's offset by hospital gain, so – "

"House, for god's sake, stop." Wilson couldn't even look at the piano, much less at House slouched behind it. "I can't believe you've actually quantified every personal relationship you've ever had."

"How else am I supposed to rate them?" House sounded perplexed – he actually sounded perplexed by that.

Wilson practically exploded. "You're supposed to rate them based on how you _feel_ about them! God!" He splayed his fingers over his face, shook his head, and then let his arms drop to the couch again. "I can't believe I'm actually having this conversation. You are… House, I don't even know what you are."

"That's nice, Wilson. Your conviction makes me all warm and fuzzy inside."

"Oh, shut up," Wilson grumbled. He tried to sound exasperated, but he was more disturbed than anything else. House had overdosed on purpose; Wilson had turned his back on a suicide attempt, not on the mundanely self-destructive friend he had thought he'd left laying on the floor that night. Against his will, Wilson's eyes strayed to the right of the couch, to where House had been stretched out on the floor in a puddle of vomit. It could have been his corpse lying there instead – _would_ have been, if House had gotten what he wanted.

A few moments passed in silence broken only by House's incessant tapping on a single piano key, and by a muted thump of footfalls in some other unit of the building. Then House pointed out, "You haven't answered my question. What do you want from me?"

Wilson groaned around the thickness in his throat, his eyes rolling on instinct. "Unlike you, I don't need to rate the intrinsic worth of the person I'm sleeping with. And by sleeping with, I mean having your ankles crossed – "

"Fine, then tell me what you expect to get out of it. What you expect from me."

"I have noexpectations of you, House." Wilson blinked at the ceiling, and then practically went into an apoplectic fit when he realized he had to follow that up with, "And don't you _dare_ take that as some sort of backhanded disparagement. You know exactly what I meant."

House offered a doubtful snort, and then drawled, "Really. You don't want _any_thing out of this little arrangement."

Wilson inhaled a litany of curses and then groaned, "House, I can't just randomly throw out justifications for being fond of you. And I don't have a powerpoint presentation with bullet-pointed timelines of all the things I expect you to provide in due course. I don't _want_ to expect things from you because when I don't get them, I'll just be disappointed, and I don't want to feel disappointed. I am perfectly fine with not asking you for things that I know you don't want to give me."

"Like?" House pressed.

Wilson tossed an exasperated hand into the air. "Like romantic declarations of love and poetry about the color of my eyes. House, I _don't know_. Why are you suddenly so obsessed with this?"

"I feel like I bought you, okay?" House sighed into the void of sound left behind when Wilson's rant faltered. "Two of you, actually. Two friendships plus a few extras, so I get to royally screw up twice, and then after that, it'll be over forever because I'm out of capital. Giving you an STD is one strike, so I figure I'm halfway fucked already."

"You actually think it's obligation?" Wilson demanded, indignant and yet indescribably saddened to think that House doing a good deed could, in House's mind anyway, eradicate all prior evidence of genuine affection from Wilson. "That you have to _buy_ my affection?"

"Not…fuck, Wilson. I dunno, okay? You're the most tolerant person I've ever met, and if I can't get you to stay, then I'm pretty much out of options. But then I went and paid for the rights to you, so…sort of negates the voluntary tolerance and affection thing."

"You didn't buy me, House – you couldn't afford me even if you wanted to."

"Fine," House sighed, slumping lower so that all Wilson could see of him was a sprig of hair. "You feel bad for me, then. I'm broke and it's your fault, so you can't leave because you know I don't have anyone else who gives enough of a damn to help, and you know that the last thing I ever wanted to do was go on disability, which I'll have to do eventually now, and you didn't want to put me through the indignity of it."

Wilson scowled through his teeth and addressed the muted television rather than House. "Where do you get these ideas?" Then, to House, Wilson demanded, "Do you honestly still think so little of yourself that pity is the only excuse you can come up with for why someone might choose to be with you?"

House emitted a sharp groan, then snapped, "I'm an angry, mean, sometimes cruel, rarely even civil, lewd and demanding cripple with boundary issues, no sense of tact, and who can't trust anyone, not even you. I can't figure out what part of that could possibly appeal to you, so yes. In the absence of other evidence, pity is the only explanation I have to go with."

Wilson shook his head and tried not to scoff too audibly. "I can't believe you're that shallow."

"Shallow? Are you serious? _You're_ calling _me_ shallow?"

"I'm not the one who can spot a rip-off Prada bag from fifty paces."

House glared over the top of the piano for a second, probably just for effect because they both knew that he _could _spot a rip-off Prada bag from fifty paces. "I asked you for _one_ reason, Wilson. You keep claiming that you love me unconditionally, and yet you can't come up with one lousy reason for it? _That's_ shallow."

"The keyword being _unconditional_, you twit. I shouldn't have to come up with reasons if by definition, there can't be any."

"That is such a copout. There should still be a reason for the lack of conditions – there should be a justification."

"What, unconditional love doesn't fit into your preconceived worldview, so you have to force me to _set_ conditions?"

"I didn't ask for conditions, moron. I asked you to name one thing that you like about me – that's all. _One _lousy thing that nobody else does for you or can do for you, that you can't get from any hooker off the street. Why is that so hard?"

Wilson gave an exaggerated, wide-eyed blink at the silent television announcer with the sprayed-on face, then chuckled against his better judgment. "You're trying to find the lie, aren't you. You're trying to manipulate me into admitting that I don't actually feel anything for you – that I think you're a pathetic loser who should be glad to have me."

"Hey, _you_ proposed. I don't think it's too much to want to know why you did it."

Wilson inhaled just to buy time, shaking his head at the kitchen doorway. Under his breath, he grumbled, "I can't believe I'm having this conversation."

"Are you just that nice? I'm losing my job, and I'm sick, so – "

Wilson smacked a flattened palm against the sofa effectively cutting off that part of House's tirade. "The damn medical insurance was an excuse, okay? Drop it!"

"Fine; I can accept that it's not blind altruism."

"Well, thank god for that." Wilson crossed his arms tightly over his chest to better seethe in silence.

"Is it the free sex?" House pushed, his voice grating obnoxiously on Wilson's already strung-out nerves. "Or the _easy_ free sex? I know I put out more than all three of your ex wives combined, and it's a hell of a lot simpler to know that if you want it, you don't have to jump through hoops when you get home, but – "

Beyond exasperated, Wilson exclaimed, "It's not about the sex! Contrary to what you believe, not every intimacy that occurs between two consenting adults is directly related to sex."

"Really. So if I decided never to put out again, you'd still want to join me in the unholy bonds of civil union-ony?"

Wilson snorted, though he could detect an hysterical edge to his own thoughts. "Like _you_ could abstain for the rest of your life."

"So you assume that this _thing_ is going to last the rest of my life?"

"Quit referring to our relationship as if the word should be banned from TV. It's not a swear word, House. For _god's_ sake! Why can't you just accept the fact that I have feelings for you that _don't_ involve nausea or murderous impulses?" Silently, he added, _Except for the one I'm having right now._

"Because you can't give me a reason! You asked me to marry you, and you can't explain why. Hell – Wilson, you aren't even spouting the L-word at me, and you spout the L-word over a good bagel. What am I supposed to think? This was never supposed to happen – you said yourself, you never wanted to propose – "

"Never _meant _to; it's not the same thing. And _you_ told me not to use the damn L-word!"

House pretty much disregarded those points. "It was just supposed to be sex on the couch. A bet, Wilson – a stupid triple dog dare. It wasn't supposed to be a relationship."

Wilson rolled his eyes and griped, "It was a relationship _way_ before the dare-sex."

"Well, in that case, is it complacency? Maintaining the status quo?"

"Don't you ever stop?"

"No. Is it just convenience? You don't have to look around anymore, go through the hassle of getting to know someone, seducing her, trying to live together, the money involved in a showy wedding – "

"Do you want a real wedding or something? Is that what this is – you feel cheap or something, or you think you're getting gypped because you're marrying a guy under shaky legislation at town hall, instead of a hot chick with fourteen bridesmaids and a ten thousand dollar reception dinner?"

"Do I look like I want a church wedding, asshole?"

"I don't know what you want! You're too damn scared to ever tell me!"

"It's just easier to settle for me, is that it? You're not getting any younger, I know you – "

"Oh. _My_. GOD! I'm not settling for you! I don't have to settle, asshole – I _want_ you!"

"_Why?!_ You can't even tell me _why_!"

"Because you're House!" Wilson shook in the aftershocks of that bellow, wondering in the far-off, still-sane part of his mind whether the neighbors were pissed off yet. Perhaps for both their benefits, Wilson knuckled his face, and then snapped, "Quit being stupid!"

"You think _that's _stupid?" House asked rhetorically. "Try this one, then. I'm not going through with the civil union unless you can give me a reason. This is serious – this is the rest of my life you're talking about. I'm not going into it blind."

"You're – you – " Wilson spluttered incoherently, then declared, "You're impossible! Just because I can't satisfy your curiosity, you're going to end the best thing that you've got going for you right now. Or _ever_, for that matter!"

"Ego, much?" House retorted. "You're not _that_ good."

Wilson kept right on going without acknowledging the dig. "You're going to actively ruin not only the relationship, but the entire friendship that came before it, just because I won't indulge you."

"I'm not sabotaging myself, jerk."

"Oh, really," Wilson drawled. He wished abstractly that he could dial down the derision, but his brain and his mouth weren't flapping in synch. "And I suppose if I were to ask why _you_ love me – "

"The only L word allowed in here from now on is Lesbian."

Wilson didn't dignify that with so much as a twitchy eye. "If I were to ask _you _that question, you'd be able to answer in a heartbeat."

"Yeah, I would," House bit back. Then he seemed to realize what sort of corner he had backed himself into and clammed up, his whole head hidden now behind the piano.

"You would," Wilson echoed, disturbingly calm in the wake of that volley.

House fidgeted on the piano bench, tapping the edge of his good foot against a piano leg, and then he started messing with the keys again.

"So, spill it. What is this grand explanation of how the great Gregory House fell in love?"

"Shut up, you damn prick."

"Can't put out all of a sudden?"

"Stop treating this like a joke!"

Wilson choked on yet another smart-assed retort and tucked his chin long enough to acknowledge that yes, he was being a prick. With one hand raised as if to demonstrate his desire for a calmer discourse, Wilson said, "You're right; it's not a joke."

"Damn straight," House grumbled to the piano.

After a moment, Wilson decided it was safe to ask, "So why, then?"

"I already told you."

"Funny," Wilson quipped. "But I don't remember having this conversation bef – "

Resentfully, House growled, "You stood up for me." The angry edge bled out of the air as he followed up with a rather sullen, "You always do." As if it were a horrible thing to contemplate, a grievous disappointment, rather than a reason to love someone. As if House wished he were able to provide a better reason because that one just made it seem like he couldn't afford to be picky. Or better yet, as pathetic as that reason was, it was the best offer he'd ever gotten. "Your turn."

Wilson just blinked at House's foot, the only part of him still visible beyond the bulk of the piano.

He must have waited, dumbfounded, for too long, because House stopped picking out random patterns of notes, slammed the key cover shut, and demanded, "Well?"

"I'm thinking," Wilson replied, which was a lie; his thought processes had ground to a screeching halt and then dribbled a bit.

Behind the barrier of the piano, House heaved a tremendous, weary sigh. "Yeah," he croaked, his voice rasping like dead leaves against the sidewalk. "I can see why it's so difficult coming up with a legitimate, non-insulting reason for wanting a jerk for a husband."

Wilson glanced up when he heard House lever himself to his feet, the piano creaking under the demand of helping to support him while he grabbed his cane. For what felt like the millionth time, Wilson promised, "It's not pity."

"It has to be, Wilson. Cuz it's not anything else."

Wilson tracked House's defeated march as he passed behind where Wilson still sat sprawled back on the couch. "Where are… You're giving up?"

"Have to know when to." House paused to steal a glance at Wilson's incredulous face, then licked his lips as he hastened to look elsewhere. "I won't embarrass myself any more than I already have. If you really want to go through with this stupid thing, I will. I just needed to know what I was getting myself into."

Wilson let his gaze fall forward again as his head swiveled back to face the television. Weather maps with floating letters and triangles danced over the screen. It took him a full minute to realize that House was still standing there behind him, probably staring at a wall and picking his lip, but standing there just the same. Without so much as a breath for preparation, Wilson asked, "Why did you bail me out?"

There was no sound behind the couch, but Wilson knew from the prickling at the nape of his neck that House was looking at him now.

As if he needed to clarify, Wilson explained, "In New Orleans. You watched me trash a bar, and then you bailed me out. Why?"

House replied off-handedly, "That song really was getting annoying. I was expressing gratitude for putting a stop to the endless repetitions. You probably couldn't see it from where you were sitting, but the dude had like ten bucks in quarters lined up along the bar." But he couldn't hide the seriousness of the inquiry, nor of the resulting evasion. He relented a moment later to the accompaniment of a cane-thump, his voice turning gruff. "You were already having a crappy day, and that was so _not_ inciting a riot."

"You didn't even know me," Wilson pointed out. "I could have been a wife beater."

"Not in _that_ tie." House snorted out the side of his mouth and shuffled closer to Wilson, still out of sight though. "Do you remember that thing? It was like four shades of puce with lime swirls. Baby vomit's more aesthetically pleasing."

"And yet you remember that perfectly."

From the rustle of clothes, Wilson guessed that House had shrugged. Dismissively, he replied, "Hard to forget something that ugly. I think looking at it gave me a migraine."

"That was the hangover."

"Tomayto, tomahto."

"You stole that tie," Wilson told him. "After you bailed me out, we parked ourselves in a bar in the French quarter, ordered a bucket of crawfish, and got completely bombed. I don't even remember taking it off, but I know you stole it. I never saw it again."

"Somebody had to save you from that fashion faux pas."

Wilson gave a weak grin, but he didn't look over his shoulder. "What did you do with it?"

Without missing a beat, House replied, "Burned it. It was a service to humanity." House came closer on unevenly placed feet, and then Wilson felt the depression of the couch back where House placed his hand near Wilson's shoulder. "What are you getting at?"

"Nothing," Wilson admitted. "I just didn't want you to leave like that."

House sniffed behind him, a strangely dainty if mocking sound, and then mingled thumps and barefoot shuffles carried him to the opposite end of the couch, where he plopped down hard, jostling Wilson in the process, and rested his cane between his legs as he sank back. The both of them looked stiff and uneasy lounging there, trying to appear natural and unconcerned. Eventually, Wilson chuckled at the absurdity of it, but he had to amend that to a calming gesture when House shot him a murderous look and braced himself to stand back up.

Wilson waited until House settled back down, albeit on edge and poised to abandon him at the slightest provocation, and then he sighed. "I don't want to tell you, okay? It's…embarrassing."

House peered sidelong at him, and then directed his gaze to the television, which now showed crappy footage of a warzone overseas. A building exploded without a sound. "Wanting to be with me embarrasses you?" Wilson admired the restraint that House employed, because it would have been so easy for him to just take that statement the wrong way, yell something scathing enough to draw symbolic blood, and storm out. Instead, House remained in place on the couch, his body held taut, clutching the handle of his cane in both hands while he stared at the television with unseeing eyes. "You spent the past six months swearing up and down that you're _not_ ashamed of me."

"I'm not," Wilson replied quietly. He kept House in his periphery, but he didn't actually look at the man. "The _reason_ I'm with you embarrasses me."

"Is it the gay thing again?"

"No." Wilson didn't even need to think about that.

House's eyes dropped to his hands and he puttered a few random, bewildered and slightly hurt syllables before he spoke again. "What, you think I'll make fun of you for it?"

Wilson sighed, ashamed and yet so resigned at this point that if House chose to push it, he would probably fold just to end the stalemate. "Prior experience suggests so."

"And you don't trust me to refrain, even though I know that? Wilson, _I _started the argument. You think I can't figure out when to be serious?"

"I think you can't help yourself sometimes," Wilson replied. "Especially when something I say makes you uncomfortable. You'd have to diffuse the sentimentality of the moment because you can only take those things at the _ends_ of conversations, right before one of us retreats because that way, you don't have to figure out how to micromanage the aftermath. And then I'd get pissed. It's just not worth the trouble. We're both…too immature."

House's head moved at the edge of Wilson's vision, a hesitant nod, and then a slightly inquisitive tilt of his head. "But there _is_ a reason?"

Wilson gave a humorless chuckle. "There is definitely a reason."

"And it's not pity?"

"Not even close."

House paused, his eyes wandering off toward the kitchen, and then he bowed his head again to look at where his fingers gripped his cane. He appeared to waffle over his next words, but Wilson knew that not knowing something felt like slow torture to House, like water-boarding; he couldn't quite drop it yet. Finally, House swallowed, his focus still on his hands, and asked, "If I tell you what my dad did, will you tell me the reason?"

Okay…whatever Wilson may have expected, _that_ was not it. "Um…no."

"It's mutual mortification, right? I can't make fun of you if I know you have the ability to retaliate."

"The two issues hardly compare, and for the record, nothing you could say to me would ever make me mock you about _that_. I'm not into consciously abusing you. In fact, I'd probably throw up all over you if I tried."

"It's just emotional abuse," House corrected. It sounded automatic.

Wilson's eyebrows skewed. "As in, they're only feelings, so I may as well kick the shit out of them while I have the chance?"

"No…" House didn't sound so sure of that, however, and when he ended up meeting Wilson's gaze by chance, he amended that to a firmer, "No."

Wilson blinked at him, but forbore addressing it. He looked away instead.

"So that's a no to the mutual disclosure thing?"

Wilson eyed House's averted face, and then shook his head again, his very posture final. "No, House. I don't want to know like that."

House flared his nostrils, frustration evident in the way he started to fidget.

They sat still for several minutes, Wilson trying to lip read television anchormen and House growing more agitated by the second. Finally, during a commercial, Wilson rolled his eyes and asked, "This is going to eat at you, isn't it."

As if Wilson needed reminding, House snapped, "You expect me to _marry_ you. And I'm supposed to just trust your motives? I know you, Wilson. You're o-for-three in the motives department already."

Wilson mumbled something obscene under his breath, then asked, "On a scale from one to ten, how much annoyance is this going to cause me?"

"Twenty seven," House deadpanned. Then he waxed curiously somber and looked down. "At least tell me what you expect me to do now. Are we domesticating? Should I suck it up and wash dishes once a week? Write you a sonnet? Pick out curtains?" He pondered for a moment, then asked, "How important are anniversaries, and which ones do I risk castration by forgetting?"

Wilson snorted. "Once a week? You call washing dishes once a week 'domesticating'?"

"Hey, I'm a cripple." House offered a sly little covert smile. "Accommodations must be made."

"Oh, well in that case, I guess we should probably limit ourselves to one night of sex per week. I wouldn't want you to strain something."

House raised an eyebrow at him. "Let's not get carried away, now."

"Well, with you washing dishes once a week, the added effort of having sex too often might push you over the edge." Wilson simpered and added, "I wouldn't want to do that to you, snookums. It would be cruel, expecting so much physical activity from a cripple."

House merely looked at him, unimpressed. "In that case, _pookie_, I'd better abstain from dishwashing altogether so that I can be at peak performance in the bedroom. I wouldn't want to shirk my husbandly duties on account of being worn out from standing in front the sink for half an hour."

"I'll buy you a dishwasher," Wilson replied archly. Then he dared to slide closer to House and lay his fingers lightly on House's forearm. He half expected House to pull away, not because of the sort-of-fight they had just indulged in, but because pulling away seemed to be House's M.O. of late.

House didn't move a single muscle in response to the contact, which said as much as recoiling might have, though he did let his eyes meet Wilson's. "I'm not going to drop this."

"I know," Wilson replied. He leaned in to let his breath ghost over House's neck. "Think of it as another puzzle."

House shivered, but put up a valiant front. "Did you miss the part where I called the puzzle a load of crap?"

Wilson rested his right arm along the back of the couch and scooted closer, his left hand gliding down off House's arm to rest on top of his good thigh. "Did _you_ miss the part where I'm not entirely convinced of that?"

House drew in a shaky breath as Wilson inched his hand up House's leg, but he tried to remain unfazed even as his lower half squirmed a little. "You don't actually think I'll get tired of you once I figure you out, do you?" When Wilson's lips met the tendon in his neck, House arched his head back a fraction and appeared to lose focus. "I mean…seriously?"

Wilson pressed his mouth to House's pulse point and suckled for a few seconds before leaving off with a light nip that made House twitch. "I don't know," Wilson replied, his breath puffing past House's ear in such a way that House ducked his head away to avoid the stimulation. "I've seen you do it to people before." His hand finally reached the top of House's leg, and Wilson dipped the blade of his palm down in the crease of House's inner thigh, his knuckles brushing past House's balls through the scratchy and slightly humid denim. "When their motives are too base or naïve, or just ludicrous."

"I…um." House's hips twitched in a random direction, and then his legs fell farther open.

Wilson kneaded softly at the inside of House's thigh while his other hand crept along the back of the couch to slide around the opposite side of House's neck. He used it to tug House's head back toward him and latched his lips over the sweet spot behind House's ear.

House cut off the whine that Wilson's treatment engendered, but he couldn't stop himself from arching into Wilson's hand and mouth with a sharp gasp. "You're just trying to distract me."

"Is it working?" Wilson shifted his left hand to cover House's nascent erection and squeezed.

House's eyes rolled back as he bit his tongue, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment before he peeled them open again and gulped a fresh breath. "Not sure yet." Though his tight tone begged to differ. "Needs further study."

Wilson grinned and chuckled lowly with his lips still pressed to House's neck. That earned him a stifled grunt. "In that case, Doctor House, we'll have to perform a few more diagnostic tests."

"Oh my god," House groaned, his back arching off the cushions. "That was so horrible."

"Yeah?" Wilson flattened his palm over the fly of House's jeans and started rubbing firm circles at the base of his clothed penis. "Because it seems to be working."

House exhaled in response and let go of his cane in favor of wrapping his left arm under Wilson's to grasp his shoulder from below and drag him over his lap. Wilson leaned over but left his hand between House's legs, grasping the back of the couch for leverage with the other as he met House's demanding lips for a brief, chaste kiss. House craned his neck for more, but Wilson pulled back to better arrange himself; House merely flopped back with an irritated groan and amused himself by cupping Wilson's ass. Because of House's slouched posture, it took too many extra moments for Wilson to sling one leg over House's, coax him to straighten a bit, and then brace his knee on the edge of the couch between House's thighs. Wilson scooted his knee in until it pressed into House's groin, then let go of his crotch in favor of bracketing House's head against the back of the couch. The cane clattered back against the coffee table when House kicked it out of his way, and then his arms were around Wilson's waist, fingernails scratching up under the hem of Wilson's t-shirt.

Wilson rubbed his knee hard up against House's balls, then dove down to swallow the ecstatic moan it produced. House scrabbled against his spine and Wilson arched his back, pressing his stomach up against House's chest, their lips ripping apart with an audible smack of moist, suctioned skin. The next thing Wilson knew, House was molesting his nipple through the shirt, and Wilson tipped his head back as teeth scratched over the nub. He couldn't believe how easily his body responded to the stimulation; apparently, it had been longer than he realized since they enjoyed each other's attentions, though it had actually been a mere week or so. Less, probably. But it felt so good, being here on the couch with House's hands on him, that he couldn't help but rub himself against House's stomach and curse the impediment of clothes between them.

A second later, Wilson wriggled around in a bid to rip the shirt off, but House grabbed the hem and pulled it back down, making it clear that he wanted Wilson to leave it on. Doing Wilson while Wilson wore House's clothes: filed away for future reference as one of House's many understated kinks. House let go of the shirt to splay his palms over Wilson's shoulder blades, and then he growled against Wilson's chest as his hands raked a path down to grip Wilson's flanks.

The pressure of long, tapered fingers around the edges of his back, thumbs pressing into the hollow place under his ribcage in front, prompted Wilson to emit a soft groan and stretch up against him, his torso elongating as he arched his back and ground his slowly hardening cock against House's navel. Wilson wondered how he looked right now, wantonly pressing against a warm body, his legs sliding farther apart as he thrust his ass back into the hands that House ran down to cup his buttocks with. Surely, he looked just like the slut that House jokingly accused him of being, but he liked feeling that way, at least for House. He liked the fact that he could be this blatantly sexual in House's presence, and that House ate it up like candy; the moan that House stifled in Wilson's navel attested to that.

House had slouched lower in his seat in the mean time to shove his clothed groin harder into Wilson's thigh, and he fell back into the couch as his hips rolled forward in a broken rhythm, abdomen clenching in time with his rapid, shallow breaths, his face tipped back to stare up at Wilson's face, to watch him take pleasure in House's rather rough handling of him. Wilson rounded his back and looked down, their eyes meeting for a rare moment before House's dropped down below Wilson's chin. House licked his lips and drew a sudden breath, then flung his head back again and rocked harder against Wilson's thigh, his eyes closed now as he drank in the sensations, his every inhalation coming harder, air shuddering from his lungs, his teeth just raking his bottom lip.

Wilson shuddered and ducked down to nip at the corner of House's mouth. House's breath caught, and then he slipped his tongue into Wilson's mouth, almost shy for once. Maybe he wasn't sure how to take this unexpected encounter, or perhaps the odd surroundings, his upset apartment, had simply led to this strange reflection of how unsettled he must still be. Whatever it was, Wilson felt his eyelashes flutter as he sucked House's tongue and forced down all of the many noises his throat seemed intent on allowing to leak out. When Wilson closed his teeth lightly over House's tongue to protest its removal, House's nostrils drew in with the quick breath he drew, and then he whimpered into Wilson's mouth.

That one sound seemed to unleash a damn that they hadn't realized they were straining against. So much shit had happened to them both, so many issues lay strewn between them, that Wilson reflected for a moment on how neither of them had really been comfortable for over a month now. Wilson gave up his handhold on the couch to grasp House's jaw with one hand, his other scrabbling down House's chest to find and then brutally pinch a nipple. They had both been holding back far too much; Wilson missed the ease with which they used to grapple at each other, wrench at clothing and limbs, wrestle each other into submission and unapologetically fuck each other. That old passion had fizzled away so suddenly, been so sorely missed, that they both ended up jockeying for supremacy right there on the couch, all teeth and nails and smothered, animalistic grunts.

House let out a throaty, nonspecific sound as Wilson's thumb dig into his cheek, and then the room spun without warning. Wilson fell over onto the couch with a startled yelp, his limbs thrown akimbo, and House pounced on him, pinned him down by his biceps, and proceeded to try to suffocate him via tongue. Wilson let him, his moan escaping unnoticed, and squirmed his lower body into something vaguely resembling a more comfortable position. House didn't much care for Wilson's cautious maneuvering, and he kneed his way in between Wilson's thighs without much thought for Wilson himself, his lips still plastered over Wilson's mouth, prickled stubble leaving a raw patch ringing Wilson's lips. Their groins collided and House stretched his bad leg out behind him, his left shoved up under Wilson's thigh and his knee precariously close to sliding right off the edge of the couch. Then he ground himself down against Wilson's cock.

Flannel and cotton clung to the sweat-dampened skin of Wilson's inner thighs and groin, the chafing aggravated by the stiff material of House's jeans, but he couldn't spare enough brain cells to care. It hurt but not too badly, and really, Wilson sort of liked the primal quality of having someone so desperate to feel his body against him that removing clothes would waste time better spent creating as much friction as possible. House stretched out along Wilson's body, his weight settling hard and heavy against Wilson's torso, and then the heat between them tore an embarrassingly loud moan straight up from Wilson's chest. House bared his teeth into the kiss and proceeded to curl into him, dry humping him into the couch. It was dirty and desperate, and so long overdue that Wilson squeaked and then planted his heels into the couch so that he could jerk his pelvis up.

Leather creaked as they moved, the old couch's frame crackling at their frantic movements. House untangled his arms and then grabbed at the couch arm above Wilson's head, his fingernails skidding over the leather with a sound similar to nails to a chalkboard, though less grating. Wilson loped an arm around House's waist and latched his other hand onto House's ass cheek, his fingers clawing in to increase the pressure, or perhaps just to hold on. House used his arms to heave himself farther on top of Wilson's willing body, lending more force to his thrusts. The kiss had degenerated into a clashing of teeth and Wilson finally flung his head aside to break it. House buried his face in Wilson's neck instead, and the only thing Wilson could hear beyond the blood in his ears was the soft litany of cries that he knew House probably wasn't aware of making. If he had been, he would have bitten his tongue to silence himself.

At a particularly hard thrust, they both shuddered, and then Wilson mouthed House's neck in an uncoordinated mess of saliva and tongue. "Not here," Wilson gasped. If they finished this out on the couch, they would have to content themselves with frottage and hands. He wanted more than that, which meant moving it into the bedroom. "House, not here."

House grunted assent and peeled his fingers from the leather above Wilson's head, but his hips kept rocking into Wilson's. "Wilson."

Wilson arched up into a shock of unanticipated sensation, his breath caught in his throat, and then he expelled an entire lungful much too fast. He could only barely manage to grunt, "Huh?" in response.

House sort of stuttered his body to a standstill and made a fruitless effort to catch his breath; he merely ended up panting outright, his face hovering above Wilson's. His eyes were loosely closed but the crinkles near his temples and the crease between his brow betrayed some minor concern. House shut his mouth suddenly and Wilson felt him tense. "Mmph."

"House?" Wilson started to move, suspecting a cramp, but House clamped a hand over his shoulder and pressed him flat again. Wilson took the hint and went still, waiting, his mind unclouding in an instant. "Hey. You need to breathe, House." Wilson worked a hand into House's hair and scratched at his scalp in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

House consented to hiss, and then he let his head drop down between his shoulders, his forehead smacking into the back of the hand that he had clenched around the tip of Wilson's shoulder. Then he wheezed in a fresh breath and let out a whispery, strangled moan that ended in, "_Fuck_."

Wilson petted the back of House's neck and tried to knead some of the tension out of his shoulders. House allowed the comfort for perhaps ten seconds, and then he shrugged Wilson's hands off. He didn't move other than that, however; Wilson figured that at the moment, he probably couldn't. His fingers tightened on Wilson's shoulder, though, biting into the tender flesh around the joint until it hurt. It took another series of House's labored respirations for Wilson to realize that while his own erection had rather abruptly flagged, House's had not. An acute discomfort pervaded Wilson's body but it wasn't like he could do anything about the fact that it disconcerted him.

Finally, an interminable minute later, House swallowed, gave a twitch, and then exhaled in what sounded like relief. "Okay," he whispered into Wilson's shoulder. "M'okay." He shifted minimally over Wilson's body and then froze again. "I killed the mood, didn't I." He said it as if ruining a romantic moment via an involuntary leg pain were akin to running over someone's puppy.

Wilson blinked and nuzzled House's temple. "Not a bit," he lied. He knew that House could feel the absence of a second arousal pressing up against his disturbingly enthusiastic cock, but ignoring the interruption seemed like the wiser course of action. Before House could dispute the assertion, Wilson snaked a hand between them and cupped House through his pants. "Nothing dead down here."

House twitched against Wilson's fingers, his glutes clamping down on instinct to give his hips an involuntary push. "Mkp."

Wilson chuckled; he loved rendering House incoherent, even if the condition was temporary. "Quite lively, in fact."

House licked his lips as if savoring the aftertaste of an especially sinful cheesecake. "You're not allowed to talk during sex anymore."

Wilson snorted. "Like hell. I could start in with the really bad lines again. Start talking about your masculine rod…"

With a mock-pained groan, House vigorously shook his head and dropped it to Wilson's clavicle. "Nooooooo!"

"Your magic wand?"

House thumped his brow hard against Wilson's chest.

"Oof! Stop it."

"I feel like I'm trying to have sex with a spam email for penis enlargement."

Wilson sort of inhaled a snort. "With the proper treatment, I can add inches to your dip stick. You'll hang like an elephant."

"Does your offer come with a delete button?"

"If you reply now, you can plunge my…okay, no. That's just more disgusting than I wanted to get. How about sticking your Excalibur in my – "

"Stop, or I will bite you."

"How do you know I won't like th – ow! Knock it off, you damn cannibal."

House dislodged his teeth from the back of Wilson's hand, and then lifted his head to glare down at Wilson without any real heat, discounting the lust anyway.

"What?" Wilson demanded, more than a little disturbed by the muted intensity in House's face. "I don't dirty talk, remember?"

"Yeah, wow – because it's not the slightest bit obvious that you suck at it."

Wilson squirmed, defensive. "I thought you liked my pathetic attempts."

"I only put up with your pathetic attempts to make sure you don't storm off in a huff mid-coitus."

"That would be more convincing without the creepy leer," Wilson informed him. "Fine. If I'm so horrible at it, why don't you show me how it's really done?"

House arched a dubious eyebrow. "You want me to talk dirty to you?"

"Demonstrate your skills, oh guru of bedroom games. Lavish me with your naughty quatrains."

"You seriously need to shut up now." House reinforced that with a surprisingly slow, thorough kiss. The transition afterwards from slightly pained banterer to seductor was startling; House let his eyelids drift to half mast, a hint of blue twinkling in the flickering light from the silent television, and let his body flow over Wilson like melted chocolate.

Wilson hummed in appreciation. The break in their momentum felt like a distant memory and he pushed his gradually returning erection into House's leg. "Move it along, hot shot. I want to hear the master at work."

"Patience, grasshopper." House ducked his head down and traced his tongue along the tendon in Wilson's neck slowly enough to elicit a bout a shivering. Then he tucked his face in behind Wilson's ear and murmured, "You smell so good."

Wilson laughed in spite of himself.

Undaunted, House pressed his nose into Wilson's hair and purred, "Feel what you do to me?" He followed up by shimmying his hips to a more comfortable position between Wilson's legs and angled his erection in against Wilson's balls.

"Not impressed yet," Wilson murmured even though it was working; House could manipulate his voice like wet silk when he wanted to, and the tongue rimming Wilson's ear definitely helped. "And if you start talking about the warm cavern of my mouth, I'm outa here."

"Mmm…no. Don't think I will." Even through the words, House kept on nibbling Wilson's ear, vibrations sending shudders through Wilson's nervous system. "But I could always free the stiff length of your manly organ and treat it to the warm cavern of_ my_ mouth."

Wilson laughed outright at that, and felt an echo of mirth past through House's chest as well.

"But I won't," House conceded. "I'd rather throw you down on the bed and make you scream my name."

"Subtle," Wilson replied. He decided that no matter how breathy that sounded, he did not gasp it.

"You didn't say I had to be subtle." House wriggled like a snake over Wilson's body until he could insinuate one hand between them. Rather than go for the obvious, House bypassed Wilson's genitals and grasped his inner thigh in an forgiving grip. One knuckle came to rest behind Wilson's balls, up against his perineum, and House inscribed tiny circles there. "Know what else I'd like to do to you?"

With forced bravado, Wilson said, "I'm sure you're going to tell me." In reality, he was slowly melting as House externally stimulated his prostate; it produced a slow but agonizing ache.

"I'd like to stick my finger in your mouth, for one."

Wilson froze in mid-squirm with the regrettable need to think about that. "Um…not very hot, all things said."

House ignored him. "Get it nice and slick, then use it to trace your nipple."

More confounded than anything else, Wilson asked, "This is supposed to be a turn-on? It would work better without the play-by-play announcement."

"Then I'd put it back in your mouth, make you suck on it, run it alongside your tongue and then thrust it in and out between your lips."

House moved as if to kiss him and Wilson craned his neck only to find a finger slipping into his mouth instead. He suppressed some cracked impulse to chew on it, and instead mumbled, "Hey!" around it.

"If you get it good and wet, I can do something more fun with it," House teased. Without removing the finger, House threaded his tongue into Wilson's mouth too and sealed their lips together.

Yeah, okay; that did something for him. Wilson hummed and ended up sucking the finger along with portions of House's lips and tongue whenever they got in the way. The fact that House continued rubbing his knuckles against his perineum probably had something to do with the erotic element. Wilson refused to let House know how well his technique was working, though, and somehow managed not to writhe outright. Of course, his penis betrayed him, but what else was new? Which reminded him: they would have to use condoms until the Chlamydia cleared up or they would end up passing the infection back and forth. Later, Wilson thought; worry about that later.

House grinned into the kiss when he felt Wilson hardening against his hip. He pulled back far enough to speak, but not quite far enough to prevent their lips from brushing. "Remember the first time we actually fucked?"

Wilson felt the heat roil through him at that. Seeing House splayed open before him on the bed, nervous as hell, halfway to terrified and yet desperate enough to entice him back that he had been willing to trust him…House shaking uncontrollably as Wilson brushed the tip of penis against his ass…the ecstatic whine when Wilson nudged his prostate on the first thrust, and House turning to molten liquid beneath him… Yeah, Wilson remembered it vividly; it was probably one of his favorite moments with House. Instead of confessing to that, Wilson rolled his eyes and asked, "You mean that time you barged into my office and demanded that I get Biblical with you? Yeah. Clear recollection, as a matter of fact, since my assistant was sitting right there when you did it. I had to make up some story about how you were just pissed over a clinic patient who raved on and on about the joys of gay sex, and ruffled your feathers so much that you felt a need to disprove his emphatic assertions."

House's nose twitched, but only on one side, and he did that adorable ducking of his head that only came out when he was truly abashed. "Not that part."

"I still think you did it on purpose," Wilson mumbled around House's index finger, which was still absently occupied with trying to pin Wilson's tongue to the bottom of his mouth, for whatever reason.

House's eyes drooped almost all the way shut as he hovered with his lips ghosting over the corner of Wilson's mouth like fog, as he weren't actually so close that Wilson could count his eyelashes. "I admit, that particular shade of pink looked good on you, but no. Red doesn't become me."

"Oh, I beg to differ." Wilson reached up to tug House's finger from his mouth, but didn't relinquish House's wrist. Instead, he held House's hand close enough to lick at whimsical intervals. "It's my favorite color on you, in fact. Right before you come, when you strain so hard that even your shoulders flush…covered in tiny beads of sweat… You shine in the right light." Wilson nibbled at the sensitive web of skin joining House's thumb to his forefinger, please to notice that it had some effect on House's coloring. Or perhaps his words had done that.

Whatever it was, House turned an extremely delicate pinkish hue, nearly translucent. "I do not," he mumbled, almost petulant in his mannerisms, trying to hide his self-consciousness under the guise of nuzzling Wilson's neck.

Wilson grinned into the hair at House's temple and gave an impish chuckle. "Oh, yes you do. It's only there for a couple of seconds, just as you go rigid. Your stomach clenches and you curl up, but your head goes back and all I can see of you half the time is the underside of your chin and your mouth open just a little bit, the bottom edges of your upper teeth hovering right over your lip. Which quivers, I might add."

"Wilson, seriously." House left off playing entirely and squirmed as if to divest himself of Wilson's words. "Knock it off."

House's squeamishness merely served to urge Wilson on. With a wicked glance at House's face where he had carefully concealed it in the crook of his Wilson's, Wilson continued. "And then you sort of convulse, just once. Sometimes hard enough to nearly throw me off. You bite your bottom lip as if you seriously think you can hold in that cry of yours. The whelp. Even with your mouth closed, it sounds like that. And I feel you start to shake all around me just as the color spreads from your cheeks. It's like watching a flame in zero gravity, the way it billows out across your skin."

House hissed a mortified, "_Wil_son!"

"By the time it hits your collarbone, you're looking for something to bite down on. Sometimes you find my shoulder, but most of the time, there's nothing close enough, so you have to just grit your teeth and throw your head back again. I try to catch it in my hands sometimes…cradle it so you won't hit yourself against the headboard… You have no idea how much I love that moment, when you finally start to come apart, and you move without thinking about it for once…when you writhe under me…"

House still had his face ducked in to hide near Wilson's ear, but Wilson could feel the delicate heat that spread through House's cheeks where his skin touched Wilson's neck. And from the feel of things, House was using his conveniently placed hand to pick at his lips as if they were chapped.

Wilson grinned and lightly stroked House's hair just because he knew that House was a bit too mortified to whine over being touched with what he often considered an abundance of tenderness. "Your eyes are always so wide," Wilson crooned, his voice deliberate and modulated just low enough to send an unexpected shiver coursing through House's frame. "But you almost never look at me when you're like that; you stare at the ceiling with your shoulders curled off the bed, your thighs squeezed so tight around me that I can't breathe, and your fingernails always digging in somewhere, desperate to hang on. And then…my god, House. Then for this split second your face goes slack and it's the most obscenely divine thing I've ever seen. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were looking at god."

"Nope," House replied, lips popping at the end of the word. Flippant, he said, "I see visions of fresh Vicodin bottles floating all around me. God doesn't provide the same sense of nirvana as pharmacy-grade opiates." The forced attitude barely covered just how embarrassed Wilson had left him.

Wilson merely smirked. "You're leaving wet spots on my pajamas."

"Am not."

Nearly giddy, Wilson exclaimed, "I got you worked up!"

Like a drop of acid, House snapped, "I was worked up before, remember? Nothing to do with your smutty little interlude."

"Oh, admit it! I got to you."

House grumbled something incomprehensible, but it sounded lewd.

Wilson scrunched House's hair between his fingers and then whispered in House's conveniently placed ear, "Still think I can't talk dirty to you?"

"I think I've been played," House replied waspishly.

Smug and high on himself, Wilson returned, "You're not allowed to get grumpy when you're on top of me."

"Meh." House wriggled about for a second, then pushed himself up on his good knee and made a controlled fall onto his ass on the cushion farthest from Wilson. His hand strayed to rub himself through his jeans, but when he caught Wilson watching with an intent smirk, propped on his elbows, House stopped pawing his crotch in favor of fishing around on the floor for his cane.

Wilson took the opportunity, with House sitting scrunched over as he plucked his cane from the carpet, to run an appreciative hand up House's spine. On an impulse that made him frown, Wilson softly admitted, "I miss you."

House started, one hand still reaching for the cane he had kicked away earlier, and gazed stupidly over his shoulder at Wilson. "Huh?"

On its own initiative, Wilson's hand glided up House's back until he could curl his fingers over a deceptively thin shoulder. "Nothing. Just…never mind."

House's gaze flickered away several seconds before his head turned to follow, and Wilson watched him prop his elbows on his knees. He didn't make any sort of move to shake off Wilson's hand for once, so Wilson continued to loosely grasp House's shoulder while House himself pondered the hands clasped between his knees. Eventually, all he did was puff out his cheeks, swish the air around for a moment, and then he hauled himself to his feet. Wilson's hand slid from House's back without any sort of acknowledgement from either of them. After House stooped to finally retrieve his cane, Wilson watched him hobble off in the direction of the kitchen.

With the amorous mood officially dead, Wilson cast about for the remote and ended up digging between couch cushions before he located it. He his the volume button and then immediately had to scramble to mute the damn thing again. "Good lord, House! It's no wonder your neighbors hate you. What the hell did you need to watch at a hundred decibels?"

"Dunno; it was boring." Like that explained it. House thumped along behind the couch, making for the piano.

"Well, if you burst your eardrums, don't come crying to me." Wilson lowered the television volume by more than half as a prelude to un-muting it. Then he sat waiting to hear the piano bench scrape and creak under House's weight, but the bare footsteps merely paused for a moment before approaching the couch again. A pacing fit had ensued. Lovely. Wilson let his head fall back against the couch, his eyes tracking House into the kitchen. It didn't look or sound like pain-relief pacing; Wilson figured that House was just restless and busy obsessing over his own ideas of what Wilson might be up to, coveting a relationship with him. He briefly considered stopping House and shoving him down on the couch with the remote just to make him be still for a minute, but they had already misunderstood each other enough for one evening. Forcing House to stop mulling over a problem would only serve to annoy him further.

House didn't pause in his pacing when Wilson rose to make his way to the kitchen, hoping for a beer. He was more likely to find soda or nothing at all, as far as canned beverages went, since House had given up drinking without Wilson even noticing until House had pointed it out to him some weeks ago. They passed each other, House glancing in his direction merely to ensure with a cold sort of look that Wilson would not hamper him, and then he continued on his unmerry way. Wilson's eyes tracked him around the island, and then he leaned his hip against the counter beside the fridge, all thoughts of getting a drink forgotten.

On his way to the bedroom, Wilson started to wonder when their relationship had gotten so serious, because it had never felt like such a grave matter until this night, and he couldn't help noticing how much that fact seemed to unsettle House. The best course would probably be to say nothing and wait for House to either bring it up (which would never happen), call the whole relationship off (again), or get over it. Not addressing things had always worked for them in the past, after all; their friendship owed its very survival to that questionable habit on more than one front.

Wilson spent more time than usual getting ready for bed, and nearly two hours early at that, which was probably why House poked his nose around the bathroom doorjamb to give him a speculative look. Checking up on him. Wilson wanted to quirk a smile and quip that he was still there, no need to get weird about it, but he merely frowned instead. House met his eyes, glanced away, and then shoved the door open all the way with his cane. A billow of comparatively frigid apartment air horned in on the residual warmth that had lingered about the tiles from Wilson's earlier shower, and Wilson paused with his toothbrush dangling under the open tube of toothpaste. "House? What's up?"

House shrugged, propped himself on the threshold, and set about picking his lip. Wilson had once watched him pick it bloody on the couch, imagining that House was doing the same inside his head, picking at some preoccupation with a case until the white matter bled out of his ears in sheer desperation to shut him up.

Wilson felt his eyebrow twitch before he registered the fondness spread out across his face. "Okay, then." He went back to squeezing out the last smear of toothpaste from the flattened tube, but he maintained a surreptitious surveillance on the absent man in the doorway. The silence bred oppression, and just to break it, Wilson asked, "Do you need the shower, or were you planning to just stare at me all night?"

House started lightly at the sound of his voice, shrugged again, and slipped out of sight. That time, Wilson followed, his ill-prepared toothbrush held up at elbow level as he padded through the apartment in House's wake. Once in the living room, Wilson let House get through another pacing circuit before he observed, "You're creeping me out."

House missed a step and stumbled to an awkward halt, his hand tightening over the head of his cane, and they both stayed put for a second that felt more like an hour frozen in still frame – a video stuck on pause. Finally, House sucked in an uneven breath, knuckled his forehead, and then gestured at random. "I want off the Vicodin."

Wilson blinked. In his most private thoughts, he had been wishing for House to utter some variation of that for ten years now, but actually hearing it did strange things to him. All he could say was, "Why now?"

"Because you don't deserve to marry a junkie." House moved off after that too-stark answer and Wilson watched him retreat to the kitchen. This time, House didn't round the island and come back; he hid out of sight beside the refrigerator to add, "And I just paid a ridiculous amount of money to keep you around. …be stupid not to be here to enjoy it."

Wilson ventured as far as the kitchen doorway, far enough to look at the tense set of House's shoulders curled over his hunched back, all poorly obscured by a thin gray t-shirt. Tentative, Wilson said, "It never could have been a scam for you, could it." Not really a question.

House answered anyway, a soft rumble of gruff, unwilling seriousness. "Doesn't matter. You need that part."

"I need to have something that hurts you?" Because Wilson knew damn well that even placing the option there for Wilson had wounded House in ways neither of them could really comprehend.

House gave an uneasy shrug. "What else is new?"

Wilson swallowed the catch in his breathing and wished for pockets to hide his fidgety hands in. Rather than leave them to their own devices, Wilson crossed an arm over his stomach and allowed his other hand free reign over his cervical vertebrae. "I didn't realize how much that meant to you. Asking… I didn't think…"

"Liar." For the second time that night, the accusation sounded far too conversational with the way House said it. Just a vapid comment on the weather.

Wilson's hand worked his neck so hard, he inadvertently pinched a patch of skin at his nape.

"It's okay," House assured him, but he kept his back turned, and his cane thumped an obscure rhythm on the floor near his bare toes. "I knew that when you asked."

"Now who's lying?" Wilson demanded, but the words held no heat.

House rolled his shoulder, the cane shoulder, and looked at the counter. "I know you love me." He mumbled the "L" word and then threw a furtive glance at a series of kitchen fixtures, as if they might spontaneously combust on account of him saying it. "You wouldn't put up with me if you didn't."

"Probably not. House…" Wilson took a breath to delay his own thoughts, trying to find a wording that didn't sound stupid or cliché, like one of House's dumb soap operas. Finally, Wilson merely sighed and asked, "What do _you_ get out of it? I mean, out of us…this." He sketched a loop with his toothbrush, reluctant to expound on that. House would know what he meant.

"Besides a constant stream of criticism and unwanted advice on how to better myself?" House stretched his neck around to one side, the better to peer at Wilson past the arm he had braced against the sink to hold part of his weight. It was obvious from that look that House only replied like that because it was an inflammatory statement, however true; Wilson knew that House couldn't help himself sometimes…that House couldn't bring himself to lie even if he did have to couch the admission of hurt in a blanket of sarcastic rhetoric.

Rather than taking up a pointless argument to disprove that, Wilson shrugged. "Yes, besides that."

House's upper lip curled in mild distaste too quickly for him to hide it by turning away. He hobbled away from Wilson, but ended up cornering himself at the back of the kitchen, next to the sink. To the empty basin, House replied, his voice like grated stone, "I get you to stay."

Wilson inhaled, then had to let his simply expel the air again without a sound. His sinuses felt full. "That's all?" He didn't really know why he needed the clarification, or why it bothered him that House had replied as he had.

House lifted a shoulder without turning, his cane dangling against his bad leg as he picked it up, the hands hooked under his index and ring finger. "That's all I _want_ out of it."

Wilson nodded, painfully sobered by the moment, which was a feat considering he had been sober to begin with. He set his loaded toothbrush down on the island and then rounded it to come up behind House's slumped figure.

"I meant it," House added. "Erm…before, I mean." He swiveled his head just enough to catch sight of Wilson's feet from the corner of his eye. "I'm not marrying you until you tell me the reason."

"House, that's – " Wilson was going to say silly, but House interrupted.

"You don't trust me not to make fun of you for it. I won't marry somebody who can't even trust me with a stupid thing like that. What else won't you believe?"

Wilson clasped the tip of House's shoulder, his grip firm but tentative. "I _do_ trust you, House. I promise, I – "

"If you meant that," House interjected, his voice soft as a breeze through a broken wind chime, "then you would've told me." He bowed his head and caught his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. "It's okay, though; I know how often I've screwed you over, so it's not like I can really blame you." He swallowed and turned his face farther away.

Wilson choked a little over his own constricted throat and allowed his hand to fall from House's shoulder, sliding down a portion of his back in the process. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I'm so sorry I make you feel that way."

House gave a forced chuckle, barely a soft snort, but he smiled that wide, sadly resigned smile when he did, the one that never failed to twist Wilson's gut, and contorted his upper body so that he could meet Wilson's gaze. "Then you're in good company."

That was an admission, Wilson realized. House was apologizing too for hurting Wilson, for ever having made him feel less than adequate. "Yeah," Wilson breathed. He regarded House curiously for a moment, unsettled but somehow more at ease than he had been in several weeks. This wasn't a fight; it was just a heart-rending sort of mutual understanding. Just to break the moment before he caved, Wilson jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom. "Come to bed?"

House sucked both his lips in between his teeth and then nodded. "Sounds good." But he moved to the refrigerator instead, and Wilson took that as a veiled plea to get lost for just a few minutes. Wilson did, plucking his toothbrush from the island on the way out.

House followed him to the bathroom and then busied himself with the trinkets and hair care products arrayed on the shelf by the toilet, pretending no one else was there while obviously waiting for Wilson to vacate the room. Wilson went right on about brushing his teeth and then excused himself without actually saying or doing anything to that effect. He peeped his head around the corner of the doorjamb a minute later to toss an armful of work clothes into the hamper, and again pretended that nothing at all was going on. House paused in the middle of changing into pajamas to act as if he weren't hiding his semi-naked state behind the pair of pants he held clutched to his chest, and Wilson let him.

Wilson suspected that neither of them were really tired, but they locked the apartment up for the night in a mutually agreed-upon silence. Lastly, before turning in, they traded handfuls of pills in what was fast becoming a ritual between them, each making sure that the other took his medication on time and at the proper doses. Wilson swallowed his in front of House because House blocked the bathroom doorway, his arms adamantly crossed over his chest and one eyebrow raised in expectation until Wilson put on a show of gulping a glass of water and then showing House his empty mouth. House merely gave a curt nod in response and limped off with his own pills still clenched in his fist. It didn't seem important at the time, especially since Wilson joined House in the bedroom soon enough to watch him knock them back to the accompaniment of a glass of milk. Wilson remarked that they hadn't eaten dinner, and House asked if Wilson wanted to order a pizza, but in the end, they merely settled under the sheets and switched off the nightstand lamps. When they drifted off after protracted staring contests with the dark ceiling, it was on their own respective sides of the mattress.

* * *

Wilson grunted as his pillow moved and he groped for an edge to hold down. It felt like he found an armpit instead. With a groan, Wilson snarked, "House, stop. _My_ pillow."

House shifted and moaned, "Not…yours."

Wilson fell back into a weighted and fuzzy state, trapped near oblivion on the edge of a dream where everything around him smelled of copper, but something jostled him again. Irate, Wilson insisted, "Is so mine." Then he proceeded to paw at House's chest to find his pillow. Sleep…god, just sleep. Shut up, world.

House made an odd sound in the back of his throat, and then he made a weak attempt to block Wilson's hands. "No…fuck you."

Wilson pried his eyes open and grabbed one of House's hands from mid air, his secondary reflexes good despite the bleary state of his mind. Oh…_House_ was his pillow. Right. That explained his handful of armpit hair. "Mm…House, cut it out. Sleepin' here."

All in one breath, as if it were a single word, House mumbled, "Gotohell." His breathing thinned and he tugged his hand free again.

"Later." Wilson fitted himself more snuggly against House's side, his head pillowed on his own arm since House was being difficult and antisocial in his sleep. It crossed his mind that he could always move to the couch; black leather and an old closet blanket tempted him from across the apartment. It was warm here, though; really warm. Wilson dodged House's fumbling mitts and settled down again only to have House shove him harder. "Fine!" Wilson snapped, almost fully awake now. "I'll leave you alone, bed hog." Wilson rolled over to his own side of the bed and punched his pillow as much for bleary anger management as to shape it.

"No!"

The yelp prompted Wilson to prop himself on an elbow and twist his neck to look at his bedmate. "House?"

House brought his hands up to shield his face, his lower body tangled up in the sheets. "Sorry, m'sorry…didn't…sorry…"

Wilson reached over to shake House's shoulder. "Wake up."

House jerked away from him and rolled himself up tighter in the sheets, which only upset him more. "Leggo, lemme go…fuck…bastard."

"House, you're dreaming." Wilson snatched his hand again as he flailed it and held it down against the bed so that he couldn't accidentally smack Wilson. "You're having a nightmare." A waking nightmare, he added to himself. Wilson reached out to stroke House's face, to coax him out of the dream. It was probably a relic of epileptiform brain activity; House had only been back on the gabapentin for two days, and it would take time for it to build up again in his system. They were bound to encounter a few more mild episodes before things settled down in his head.

House flinched and then started struggling to free himself from the blankets. "Stop! Please, stop – stop, I don't…m'good…didn't mean it…good."

Wilson ducked and then fumbled to hold House's other hand down too. "House! It's Wilson. You have to wake up."

House made a strangled protest and then screamed, "NO! No, no – "

This wasn't right, Wilson thought; House was fighting with almost all his strength. The mechanism of sleep was supposed to paralyze a body to keep just this sort of thing from happening. But House was thrashing to get loose, yelling… The only explanation Wilson could come up with was that House was not asleep.

"House. House, listen to me. It's Wilson. You're having a flashback." In the hopes of engaging House's more rational side – his medical mind – Wilson stammered out, "Hypnagogic regression. House, it's not real." Wilson rolled partway on top of him and managed to pin House's hands between them. It occurred to him that being restrained, held down like this, might make it worse depending on what House was remembering, but the alternative was to let House flail and possibly harm one or both of them.

House's breath hitched and Wilson caught a glimpse of blue irises glittering in the ambient light from the illuminated bathroom down the hall. He gasped at something Wilson couldn't see, and then sobbed, "No…please…"

"God. House, look at me." Wilson worked his left hand out from between them and ran the backs of his knuckles over House's cheek; House threw his head back to avoid it, then hiccupped as the top of his head struck the headboard. Wilson winced and cupped the crown of House's head to protect it. "Come out of it – come on, talk to me. Talk through it." Wilson didn't want to go through this again, another episode like the one at the hotel. If he had caught on early enough, though, he figured he might be able to talk House out of it.

A sob worked it's way out from between House's lips and he kept squirming under Wilson's weight, not really seeing Wilson even though he occasionally looked right at him. Then he suddenly tensed and clamped his jaw, eyes scrunched shut, panting furiously through his nose. From his weak struggles and frantic, choppy breathing, it almost seemed…it seemed like House was about to choke. But there was nothing for him to choke on. Just to make sure, however, Wilson wrestled House partway onto his side and then grabbed House's head, forcibly holding it in place so that if he threw up, he wouldn't aspirate. The way that House's torso roiled against Wilson's, emesis seemed a distinct possibility.

House began to quake the moment he tried to turn his head and found it hemmed in by Wilson's hands. Tears streamed down House's face more from the force with which he clenched his eyes shut than from actual emotional release. Wilson shifted over him so that his grip would feel more like an embrace, and soothed, "House, it's okay. You're in your bed; you're safe." Wilson cautiously leaned forward and tucked House's hands up under their chins, leaving House's fingers free to gouge their ways into Wilson's palms. He kept one hand behind House's head, though, so that he couldn't tip it up. "You're at home with me – with Wilson. Come out of it." Wilson could feel House's stomach clenching, practically heaving even though nothing came up. Yet.

House's heartbeat thumped in the vein on his neck where Wilson pressed his cheek, and he situated himself so that House could easily bury his nose in Wilson's shoulder if he wanted to. It was a tiny concession, but he had already observed that House responded to the scent of him. Smell was the most basic of the five human senses – the oldest innate sensory response. An infant knew the scent of its parents, its caregivers – it knew that those smells signaled safety and warmth and food long before its eyes gained the ability to focus and recognize faces. At some point, House had come to equate Wilson's smell with all of those things – with comfort. He wondered if House was aware of doing that, though it seemed ludicrous for him not to realize. Then again, when it came to himself, House could be incredibly dense sometimes.

When House scrabbled against him, Wilson ducked his head, content to let himself be clawed at until House obtained fistfuls of his t-shirt. With his lips pressed against House's neck below his ear, Wilson murmured, "Just breathe, House. It's okay."

"N-no." House hiccupped and then swallowed a strangled sort of exclamation, but his voice sounded calmer, back down to his usual baritone, though it shook something fierce. "Not…m'not…you can't…touch me…" He finally turned his face into Wilson's neck and gasped air in without lifting his nose or mouth from Wilson's shirt. The sensation of being breathed through alternately cooled and warmed Wilson's skin, humid breath moving far too quickly in and out of House's lungs. "Wilson."

"Yeah." Wilson let more of his weight rest along House's torso, molding them closer together. "It's just me."

"…m'be sick."

"Just breathe through it," Wilson encouraged. "Stay with me and breathe. You'll be fine."

House convulsed once and then clutched harder at Wilson's shirt, bunching it up and twisting the fabric between his fingers in a vain attempt to drag Wilson closer than Newtonian physics allowed. "I'm…no. No, no…"

Wilson had no idea what House was so busy denying, but he didn't address it. House hadn't really stopped struggling yet, either; his squirming had merely grown weaker once he got his hands on pieces of Wilson. Wilson's position prevented House from curling in on himself, though Wilson could feel him trying, his abdominal muscles tensing as he attempted to roll away and draw his legs up.

When House realized he couldn't protect himself, couldn't cover his face or get free, he began to hyperventilate, gut-wrenching little terrified whimpers stuck in his throat as he panted. "I thought…it was empty…didn' mean…_Wilson_."

"House, it's okay." Wilson let his hands go in the hope that it would calm him. "No one's gonna hurt you."

House choked and swallowed some sort of reply as he pawed against Wilson to simultaneously hold onto him and push him off. For a second, Wilson had no idea what to do. The weight compressing House's chest was obviously making the episode worse, but Wilson was his security blanket. That, and Wilson feared that if he backed off too much, House would either end up balled in the corner on the floor, or make a break for it.

"Okay," Wilson crooned, running soothing fingers down the side of House's face, and then back through his hair.

House flinched when Wilson's fingers carded through loose tangles, and then he wrenched head away with a strangled gasp. "_Don't!_"

"Okay, I won't," Wilson assured him. House grew so frantic for a moment that Wilson gave up on trying to hold his head still, and grasped House's hand instead. He wondered what, exactly, he had just promised not to do, but the words calmed House enough that Wilson could afford a hand to grope around on the bed behind them until he found his pillow. "Shh, it's okay. You're safe here." He carefully levered himself up despite House's hands attempting to latch onto parts of him to keep him close, and stuffed the pillow between them.

A fair bit of maneuvering resulted in Wilson lying on his right side with House curled in against his stomach, his face stuffed into Wilson's pillow and the pillow mashed against Wilson's chest. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but Wilson moved his right hand to just barely cradle House's head against the mattress, his left hand wandering up and down House's right bicep, the only part of him that Wilson could touch without making House cringe or whimper. After several minutes, House began to mutter to himself, to reassure himself that it was okay, that everything was okay. He talked himself down for the most part, the same as when he experienced the worst varieties of breakthrough pain in his leg. Wilson interjected soft words and encouragements whenever he faltered.

It took over an hour for House's breathing to normalize, and then his respirations deepened as he drifted off into an exhausted slumber. Wilson moved closer once House had passed out but he couldn't pry the pillow from House's fingers. Instead, he scooted over onto his back and drew House's arm over his stomach, pillow and all, almost casting a fond smile toward House's hand when his fingers tightened a fraction over Wilson's waist. Even that faint expression failed to reach past Wilson's lips, though.

Wilson didn't get much sleep the rest of the night. Every time he drifted off, it seemed like House chose that moment to shift or offer a drowsy murmur of distress, and Wilson would jerk awake even though everything was relatively fine. At some point, House relinquished his death grip on the pillow and proceeded to drool all over Wilson's shoulder, but when Wilson wrapped his arm around House's torso, House recoiled and grabbed for the pillow again.

Eventually, Wilson stopped trying to touch him back and they settled into something resembling their positions the first time they had actually slept in a bed together, way back when House hardly ever let Wilson kiss him and couldn't stand to be cuddled. They faced each other on the bed, their breath intermingling, House's hand curled into a loose fist that brushed against Wilson's chest, Wilson's fingers trailing over House's hip.

Since House had absconded with Wilson's pillow – which Wilson didn't dare even _think_ of complaining about, since it helped keep House calm – Wilson reached past him to grab the pillow from House's side. As he yanked it over to himself, he heard a few light clatters, and froze. House seemed more or less dead to the world, so Wilson carefully maneuvered himself off the bed, snapped on his nightstand lamp, and padded around the bed to see if he could figure out what had scattered when he grabbed the pillow. He found himself staring down at a lone white pill, which had come to rest nestled in a seam in the floorboards. Wilson had the pillow dangling from his hand – he had toted it with him for whatever reason – and he raised it up to eye level, just blinking at it for a second. After casting House a last wary glance, just to make sure he hadn't woken, Wilson felt all about the pillow case until his questing fingers encountered two more pills hidden inside. He honestly didn't know what to do about them, but he could feel his stomach sinking as if it were tethered to a hook on the end of a lead-weighted fishing line.

Wilson dropped the pillow on the floor next to the pill that had fallen out and made his way silently back into bed to tangle himself back up in House's arm. It felt like forever before Wilson's eyelids grew heavy enough that he couldn't stave off sleep for the life of him. He drifted away after an eternity spent in disturbed contemplation of the plaster marks on House's ceiling where he'd gotten his water line fixed last month. He could smell pennies again as he dreamed.

---TBC

(And for those of you who are frustrated with how I keep drawing things out, I can assure you that the next chapter is a reveal...)


	38. Chapter 38

**Rating: **NC-17 because of the theme. **Warnings below.** **READ THEM, please!** **  
Disclaimer:** I collected thirty-thousand cereal box tops, but they wouldn't let me redeem them for House MD. Now I have Cheerios coming out of my ears.  
**A/N: **Special thanks to **Lorib12** on Livejournal for an advance read and recommendations on the version I ended up using.

**Warnings: Very adult and disturbing themes, a rather descriptive account of child abuse, and sexualization of a minor in the context of that abuse. I did not pull punches. Please, please, _please_ heed the warnings; this gets disturbing, and compared to most of the fics I've read that deal with child abuse, I think I got rather graphic about it, even if the admissions inside are still a little bit speculative on Wilson's part. ****If you're any sort of human, it will disturb you.**

**I based the episode from House's childhood off of the actual account of a friend I went to high school with, who gave permission to have the scenario used in the hopes that it will help raise awareness. At this point in the story, it's not apparent because details are still missing, but I wanted to make this as realistic as possible. My friend and I both urge anyone who has been abused, or who knows of someone in an abusive situation, to seek help immediately. Call the police, go to a hospital, tell a teacher...anything. Silence is not your friend.**

**Previous chapter summary**: (I suck at these.) House and Wilson argued over motives, and House said he wouldn't marry Wilson unless Wilson could give him a good reason to do so. Then House had a flashback in the middle of the night, which woke Wilson up. After House fell back asleep, Wilson discovered some pills hidden in House's pillow.

* * *

"Wilson? Hey."

Wilson grunted as something sharp poked him in the ribs.

"You have a page."

"…S'wut time izzit?"

"One of your patients coded. You have to get up."

"I hafta sleep," Wilson grumbled back.

"Huh." The bed rocked as House moved around, and Wilson tried to bury himself in the pillow. "That's usually my excuse for ignoring pages."

Wilson sucked in the scent of cotton and House's shampoo...right, this was House's pillow. Then he blew it all out on a huffy sigh. "Fine," he snarked into the pillow. Wilson untangled one arm and made a grabby hand at where he assumed House was sitting. "Gimme the phone."

House pressed Wilson's pager and cell phone into his outstretched hand, and Wilson heard him leave the room. Ten minutes and a much-needed visit to the bathroom later, Wilson padded out into the living room and fumbled a greeting in the direction of the couch, where House sat staring at the History Channel – some documentary on battle reenactments.

"No shower?" House asked.

"Not going in." Wilson continued on into the kitchen, but took time to add, "I called Brown to cover for me."

A second lapsed, and then House demanded, "Why?"

"Because it's five in the morning, I don't technically have to be in my office for another four hours, I'm exhausted, and I can't even remember the last time I just sat on the couch with you in the morning." Wilson squinted at the empty coffee pot, then stuffed it under the faucet.

"What does that have to do with a patient code?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Absolutely nothing. Shouldn't you be applauding my desire to play hooky?"

"You haven't played hooky since the third grade," House replied. "And technically, it's not hooky because you're going in later; this is just procrastination. Which is pathetic, by the way. You rebel, you." House eyed him as he stuffed some more cereal into his mouth, then said, "This is about last night, isn't it."

Wilson forbore to answer until after he had filled the coffee pot with fresh grounds and set it to brew, and then he shuffled his way to plop down on the couch. "Sue me for being concerned."

"About the wrong person," House said. "I'm not the cute little cue ball who's dying without her over-involved doctor and his awful striped ties."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "What are you doing up, anyway? Five o'clock in the morning is like phantom time for you; it doesn't actually exist unless you've stayed up all night waiting for it."

House's nose twitched as he clipped out, "Couldn't sleep." Then he glanced at Wilson and held out a cereal box tat had previously been hiding between his hip and the arm of the couch. "Fruit Loop?"

Wilson peeled his gummy eyes from the television to contemplate the slightly squished cereal box, and then he plunged his hand into it. "Don't mind if I do." A few minutes a televised interview with a modern-day Pickett wannabe later, Wilson chirped, "So. Want to tell me about it?"

House's brow furrowed. "About what?"

"House, you had a flashback last night – a vivid one. You almost got…violent."

They stared at each other for a moment, studying minute facial expressions in a perpetual quest for tells. Then House asked, "I was awake for that?"

"You don't remember?" Wilson regarded him with a critical eye, wondering if he had overlooked an injury like when House had slipped and concussed himself in the bathroom.

House cast a furtive glance off to one side. "Thought I was just dreaming."

Wilson shook his head. "No, you were awake, kicking…"

"Oh." House licked his lips and then straightened without opening his posture at all. "Fine, okay. Whatever."

Wilson swished a hand back and forth between them, like an abbreviated jazz hand. "So that's a no on the talking thing?"

"I'm not having this conversation."

"Fine."

They sat in a strained farce of companionable silence for a while, munching dry cereal and blinking in sleep-deprived wonder at the flashing images on the screen in front of them. Eventually, though, House couldn't contain himself any longer, and he blurted out, "It's not like you to neglect a patient."

Around a mouthful of processed sugar-coated cereal, Wilson replied, "She's not being neglected. Brown went in."

"Still," House insisted, now reduced to grumbling. "It's not like you."

Wilson huffed to himself and reached for another handful of Fruit Loops, only to have House yank the box out of reach. Wilson flopped back to his original position, semi-sprawled on his own couch cushion, and glared at the television. "Yes, well. It's not like you to cheek your Vicodin, and yet…" Wilson bobbed his head and made a gesture to finish off the hanging sentence.

House stilled for a bare second, and then went about stuffing too many Fruit Loops into his mouth.

"What, no comment?"

A few chomps followed, and then House replied, "Nofe," around the partially masticated cereal.

"You didn't think I noticed." And but for the snatching of a pillow, he might not have. Wilson nodded, mostly to himself, and listened with half an ear as House continued to gnaw on handfuls of dry cereal. "How long has it been since your last one?"

"Yesterday morning," House snapped, his voice a low growl like an alerted dog. "Before we left for work."

Wilson chanced a glance at his couch companion, who sat slouched back in his corner of the couch with a smoldering, indignant expression trapped in the subtle lines of his face. The half-empty cereal box sat between House's legs, and Wilson only now noticed that it had been positioned, perhaps strategically so, to block Wilson's view of the hand that House had clamped over his right thigh. Further observation revealed the fine tremor that coursed through the entire limb, an echo of the minute shivering of the rest of House's taut body. The dull sheen of House's skin, which Wilson had taken for a remnant of sleep and the oily residue left behind by the pores after a full day sans shower, was more likely caused by fresh sweat. Withdrawal.

After looking away, Wilson remarked, "The pain isn't in your head, House."

House emitted a mean snort, his nostrils flared over the angry curl of his lip. "Wow, Wilson."

"You need a narcotic somewhere in your daily regimen," Wilson pressed. "I know that. I'm sure Ngyen knows that too, or he wouldn't have given you Fentanyl."

"I always knew you were sort of a hypocrite, but this has got to be a brand new low."

Wilson took a deep enough breath to quell his automatic retort. House in withdrawal meant House with all his hackles raised; Wilson couldn't take it personally. "Now is not a good time for this. The seizures are barely under control. Going through withdrawal now could exacerbate – "

"Do you actually think I want to live like this any more than you want me to?"

Wilson blinked, his mouth still open though his voice had fled. As soon as he noticed, he closed it.

"I lied last night. It's not about you."

It seemed like House stalled out after that, so Wilson forced himself to prod, "What do you mean?"

House sneered as if he had to make the point of finding the admission distasteful even before he made it. "_I _don't deserve to be a junkie."

Wilson forced himself not to react. This whole discourse was too tenuous to ruin, even for the sake of encouragement. House had never said something like that before. Something that Wilson had said or done had finally gotten through to him. He wished he knew what.

"I'm a doctor too, you know." House grimaced at the cereal box and flicked the open cardboard flap with one finger. "The whole point of the Vicodin was to get me through PT so that I could strengthen the remaining muscles enough to use the leg again."

Against his better judgment, Wilson pointed out, "You gave up on PT."

"I know." Tellingly, House offered no further explanation for that, but the subject of the depression that he had fallen into after the infarction seemed to hover between them. "I also know that it's been ten years now. Any lingering pain is either neuropathic, or episodic breakthrough pain induced by spasms from working weak muscles too hard; nothing that Vicodin can really treat. PT will help with the latter."

And gabapentin with the former, Wilson added to himself. Still…the reasoning seemed too simplistic. "House, I know it hurts more than that."

To Wilson's surprise, House merely nodded agreement, then licked his lips and directed his blank stare to the television, clearly ill at ease.

Wilson furrowed his brow. "You're thinking opioid-induced hyperalgesia?" Abnormal pain caused by prolonged use of opiates would certainly make sense in House's case. For a while, the number of pills he had taken could have sedated a pony, but the slow progression through drug tolerance and increasing leg pain that had led to those doses made sense in light of this. Ironically enough, abnormally high levels of pain was also a side effect of opiate withdrawal. Opiates had always been a double-edged sword, even in ancient times.

House shrugged, noncommittal at best. It was an obvious front, as shown by the way he turned his head to study a bookshelf rather than looking anywhere near Wilson. "Ngyen suggested it the first time I saw him. I might have told him where to stick his diagnosis, so he came up with a new one."

"And now you've changed your mind?"

"Maybe." House swirled some spare air around in his cheeks, then added, "The other way didn't work so well."

Wilson halted in the middle of a nod to contemplate his interlaced fingers. "Why now?"

"I wanted to." As if that really answered the question.

What could Wilson really say to that? Of course he wanted House to find some other method to manage his pain, and yet seeing House in withdrawal always woke parts of himself that he preferred not to address, like the part that had gone on writing scripts for a decade, fully cognizant of what he was doing the whole damn time. "Yeah, but why now?"

House picked at the cereal box, then appeared to grow bored with the distraction. He sat forward to dump the box on the coffee table, then remained that way, his elbows braced on his knees in much the same pose as last night. House seemed to think better of answering honestly once or twice, and then he let out a light puff of mirthless laughter and admitted, "I finally forgot what it feels like to be sober."

Wilson may have been well-advised to just shut up at that point, but shutting up had never been his strong suit where House was concerned. "I thought you _wanted_ to forget that."

"Mm." House tapped the pads of his thumbs together, lost in thought and yet completely present in the moment. "Maybe people do change." He glanced over at Wilson, his brows raised but his head lowered, searching. Wary. "Under the right circumstances."

Wilson stared back at him for a loaded moment, and then had to drop his gaze. In his periphery, he caught a flash of blue as House looked away too. "House, why are you doing this? Is this like…is this bait? Are you fishing for a reaction? Or, what – is it a bribe? Do you think that if you give me something I want, I'll give you something you want? I'm not going to indulge you just because you make yet another token attempt to deal with your addiction. I've been there, House. I've watched you 'give up Vicodin' before." Wilson even made little air quotes to demonstrate his skepticism. "And it was always a ploy to get something you wanted, and you never actually gave up anything."

House shook his head, eyes rolling in annoyance. "You know what? Go to hell. I deflect, you get pissed. I tell the truth, you accuse me of deflecting. Just…fuck you, Wilson. This has nothing to do with you."

"House, I live with you. It has everything to do with me."

House scoffed. "You don't live with me. You just showed up for a sleepover and never went home."

Wilson pressed his lips into a thin line as he glared straight ahead. "Fine," he chirped. "You want me to go home, I'll leave."

When Wilson shoved himself to his feet, House threw his head back to glare at the ceiling in exasperation. As if Wilson should know better, he snapped, "I never said that."

"It was implied." Wilson skirted the couch and strode purposefully toward the bedroom, wondering just how far he intended to take this, because he knew damn well that he was only bluffing.

Leather creaked as House pulled himself vertical. "Wilson!"

"I'm not going to sit around while you put on a damn show for me," Wilson called.

"It's not a show!" House stumped down the hall in Wilson's wake, his footsteps betraying both his anger and the pain that the rapid, staccato movements caused him. "All you get for leaving is me detoxing alone. Do you really think that scares me anymore?"

Wilson spun in the bedroom doorway, halting House in his tracks, nose-to-nose. Wilson backed up a step because he wasn't trying to incite a confrontation. He didn't really know why he was arguing at all, except that House _had_ pulled this sort of thing before, and it was always a means to an end, and Wilson had promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn't fall for it again. Not after Tritter. Not after he had made a fool of himself by believing that House might have actually been dealing with the addiction, and believing it to House's face, no less. But his own words surprised him, as did the confusion that came from the way House asked that question. "What do you mean, 'anymore'? How many times have you… You've tried before?"

House set his jaw and refused to answer, but the dark look in his eyes did the telling for him. Yes, he had tried before, and no, it had not worked.

Hurt and bewildered, Wilson demanded, "Why didn't you ever tell me? Or ask for help?"

House's nose quivered as if he had caught a waft of something vile. Shame, because he must have known every time he tried that he wasn't strong enough to do it alone, and he was too proud to ask for help from anyone, because asking for help meant admitting weakness. And House couldn't let himself be vulnerable like that.

Wilson stared back in silence, picturing House waking up in the morning, in pain, trying desperately not to reach for the amber bottle and failing. And then hating himself for being too weak to just _not_ swallow a pill. Bested by a tiny bottle of innocuous white capsules. Of course, he never could have told Wilson, because if he ever backslid, Wilson would have been less than supportive. Wilson would have yelled at him, called him names, probably would have thrown his arms up and walked out on him along with an exhortation to just drown in the pills, if that was what he wanted. He wasn't capable of being patient in that situation, of encouraging House to try again, of reassuring him that he a setback didn't equate to failure. Wilson was an enabler. He never could have watched House suffer, not after that stupid bet with Cuddy, taping up House's mangled fingers and knowing that he had it in his power to just hand over a pill and put a stop to the whole thing. And after Wilson sabotaged him, _House_ never would have heard the end of it, of how the pills were going to kill him, and of how sick Wilson was of watching it happen.

There were plenty of times when Wilson had looked at House and seen increased pain in the set of his shoulders, in the nausea he swallowed back, in the slightly labored cadence of his breathing, the lack of appetite, the sweat on his brow and the muted gleam in his eyes, in the way he sat sprawled in his Eames chair trying not to move. Now, Wilson wondered how often he had glimpsed symptoms of preliminary withdrawal and mistaken them for the darker justifications of House's addiction. And he had no doubt that if he _had_ recognized it, he would have enjoined House to just take his damn pills, the same as always. Take a pill and shut up. Take a pill and go away. Take a pill and go bother someone else. Just take a pill so that I don't have to deal with you.

House seemed to recognize the path of Wilson's thoughts, because his eyes shifted to the side, lids lowering halfway, guarding himself against whatever Wilson might say next. A catlike expression of impatience stole over his face.

Wilson breathed a syllable of comprehension, more or less. "I, um. I think I might have misjudged you."

"No," House countered. "You judged me pretty well. But you only saw what you wanted." Cloth and bare feet rustled as House shrugged, the movement more of a full-body readjustment than a lift of the shoulders. "Not that I showed you anything else."

"You showed me plenty," Wilson argued, chagrined. "I should have seen it."

House squirmed a shoulder upwards, then let it drop. "Didn't want you to." His lip twitched as he added a self-recriminating, "s'pathetic."

Wilson shook his head, and then felt like a cad for pointing out, "You really should wait until the seizures subside. Even Foreman would tell you that."

House started to scowl, and then schooled his features into something more slack. His nostrils still flared, though, when he inhaled slowly through them to calm his temper and hide his disappointment in hearing exactly what he had expected to hear from Wilson. A second later, he decided to roll with the temper, however, and mumbled, "Screw you," as he turned away.

In retrospect, Wilson probably shouldn't have reached out to stop him. Unbalancing a cripple was not a wise course of action, and unbalancing House even less so, especially knowing that he had skimped on his pain meds and that his leg had to be killing him at best. House pivoted, probably to wrench his arm from Wilson's grasp, but he stepped wrong. Wilson tried to catch him when his leg buckled, but with House already in the middle of hopping backwards, out of reach, the most he could do was watch House try to catch himself on the cane only to end up going down hard on one knee – the bad one.

House clenched his teeth over a sharp cry as he crashed into the floor, left hand flung out to brace himself against the wall. Then he gasped and bent his head, dropping his cane in favor of covering his mouth, and mumbled, "_Dammit_," around his fingers.

"Shit." Wilson grasped his shoulder and leaned over to get a better look at him. "Are you okay?"

House hissed past his teeth and slurred, "'ig I bick my dung."

Tongue, Wilson translated. Bit his tongue. The spot of blood on House's finger when he pulled it away from his mouth confirmed that. "Dammit. Let me see." Wilson palmed House's cheek to coax him into looking up. There was some blood on House's front teeth, and Wilson stuck a finger in his mouth to feel around. Wilson shook his head and heaved an apologetic sigh. "There's a decent amount of blood." Wilson pried House's mouth further open to let in more light, his other hand circled about the back of House's neck to better angle his head, and finally spied the ragged cut where one of House's incisors had torn the delicate flesh of his tongue. He winced in sympathy. "Yeah, you bit the hell out of it." More to himself than to House, he added, "Maybe somebody _should_ leave you domestic abuse pamphlets."

That quip should have drawn a question from House, but it didn't, and Wilson actually looked at him. House stared back through eyes gone too wide, shockingly blue in the otherwise dim hallway, barely breathing past Wilson's palm cupping his chin and the thumb still hovering over his lip. As Wilson watched, House's respirations picked up, and his eyes flickered down to the point of Wilson's hip, and then inward to a more important part of Wilson's clothed anatomy, which was level with his face. Immediately, House swallowed and tried to move his head out from between Wilson's hands.

Something gradually dawned on Wilson as he slowly removed his hands and held them out at his sides, endeavoring to appear non-threatening. Softly, Wilson enjoined, "Don't get lost."

House's eyes dropped and he clenched his fingers over his scar before his gaze scattered off to alight on his cane. With halting movements, he dragged it over to himself, but he stayed on his knees on the floor, apparently unable to coordinate himself any more than that. For all that Wilson tried to see it as otherwise, getting hold of his cane looked like no more than an attempt to get his hands on a weapon, as if he felt an irrational need to protect himself.

Wilson watched House struggle to breathe evenly and took another step back before he crouched down against the wall so that he wouldn't seem to be towering over House anymore. "House. Come on; talk to me."

House's eyelids fluttered as he shook his head, and then he grabbed for the pockets of his sleep pants. Pill bottle, Wilson realized. Wilson tried harder to appear harmless, if that were even possible, and waited for House to realize what he was doing, and that he didn't have any pills on him. A few seconds later, House stopped groping after an artificial escape and clutched at his cane instead.

"Do you need some Ativan?"

"No," House breathed. Even the air he exhaled sounded tremulous. "m'okay."

Wilson hesitated, then asked, "Are you going to…you know. Should I be worried?"

House gave a vigorous head shake and exhorted, "Just shut up about it." The words came out thick on account of his ill-treated tongue. "I'm fine."

"I can see that." Wilson accompanied that pronouncement with a wry grimace. "What just happened?"

A bit more forcefully, House insisted, "Nothing."

As if Wilson would buy that. Rather than call House on the lie, Wilson asked, "Which part was it? What was the trigger this time?"

"I told you – "

"If I don't know what it was, then I can't promise not to do it again."

House acknowledged that by not reacting at all. Tentatively, he licked his lips instead, leaving behind a smear of blood on the corner of his mouth. With a distant frown, House raised a hand to wipe it off. His fingers trembled.

Wilson looked down as if to spare House the embarrassment of being seen like that, and then merely breathed his name again. On the verge of pleading, Wilson said, "You can tell me."

House hesitated, which at least meant no outright refusal. But a moment later, he grew somber and recovered his faculties with a will that would have surprised Wilson, had he not known just how adept House was at denial. "You'll just freak out again, and I'm not exactly equipped to drag you out of the street this time."

Wilson pursed his lips while he thought better of saying what was actually on his mind, but the wary, mistrustful tint to House's demeanor egged him on. Wilson wanted to wipe that look from his face almost as much as most other people dreamed of smacking the ego from it. "I'm not some scared little housewife clinging to her pretty lies about her picture-perfect family. Don't make this about me."

An indiscriminate temper flared up in House's expression, but it was the deathly silent kind. Wilson pressed on in spite of it.

"I don't give a shit about the unofficial base code of honor, or who should mind who's business, or who's reputation is going to get ruined for doing the right thing. And I'm sure as hell not going out for groceries four times a day just to avoid the possibility that I might have to look at you when you venture out of your room to take a piss. I want to see the bruises, House. Letting you hide them to spare my feelings is a lie."

House glared at him, eyes flashing with a barely-contained slow-boil of a very old fury. "Are you done?"

Wilson considered that for no other reason than to make House wait, quietly seething, and then nodded. "Yeah, that about covers it."

"Good. Now leave."

Wilson sighed and tried to act put-upon. "We just did this one, House."

"Fuck you."

As stupid as it was to start an argument now, Wilson replied, "You know, you haven't tried dumping me in a while. Let's have that fight instead; I miss it."

House bit his tongue, then flinched at the flash of pain it caused. He clenched his jaw instead, grinding his molars together, his features etched in flint.

"Or there's the one where you call me a sanctimonious martyr, and I call you an irreverent jackass. God, we haven't had _that_ fight in months. I think I'm getting nostalgic for it."

House glowered at him, a more hateful look than he normally wore. "Prick."

"Coward." Wilson leaned back into the bedroom door jamb and crossed his arms, his head tilted against a backdrop of plaster. "Which part scares you more? The part where I might figure out the truth, or the part where I might give a shit? Because if I care, if I feel sympathy for you, then it means something, right?"

"Shut _up_."

"It means I must love you, but not the way she did. You're afraid that I_ would_ have picked you over him, and if that's true, then something must have been wrong with _her_, not with you. She must not have loved you the right way, or worse yet, maybe not at all. Because you're her bastard kid – you're living proof that she fucked up her perfect little pre-planned life with her hero husband. Which means that you must be just fine as far as people go, and bad things happened to you for no good reason, and she let them."

"Wilson, shut your fucking mouth!"

Wilson knew he was treading on dangerous ground, House's smoldering fury a poignant warning to back the fuck off, but he felt giddy for some reason. Having power over House, _any _kind of power, was intoxicating; it always had been. The point of no return came and went, whizzing past Wilson's head and waving happily over its shoulder as it sailed off behind him. "Maybe she hated the reminder," Wilson plowed on. "Maybe she wanted to punish you for her sin. It's probably not true – she was probably just a product of her upbringing, an obedient little demure wife, trained never to challenge her husband, respectful to a fault because that's what good women were back then. But you're you; you're going to wonder, and you don't ever want to think that maybe she knew all about it – _all_ of it – and that she let him do it because if he hurt you, then he was hurting her too. And maybe she thought she deserved that for betraying him – deserved to have her own son abused to punish her for giving birth to you."

Wilson didn't even see the fist coming. He felt the blunt pain explode across his jaw, and then House was on him, knocking him down in the doorway and pinning him under his weight, fisting Wilson's shirt and pulling him up just to slam him harder into the floor. "_Shut up!_"

Wilson scrabbled at House's hands and managed to deflect the second blow, grunting at the impact against his forearm. If there had ever been any doubt that House let Wilson overpower him in the bedroom, this cinched it; Wilson was no match for him in a fight. It still wasn't enough to shut him up. "You were her tool. She used you. Every time he went after you, he wasn't going after _her_. And she knew it. Why else would she let him keep doing it? She's not stupid; she had to have realized that something bad was going on under her roof, but she was scared – too scared to bother stopping him. It's not like he was hurting you _that_ much, right? It's not like he left marks she could see."

"_STOP!_"

Wilson had never heard House scream like that, raw and utterly terrified, fucking pissed, and so desperately small. House was shaking so hard that Wilson could feel it everywhere House touched him, and there were enraged tears caught twinkling in the corners of House's eyes. Wilson let House shove his arms to the floor because if he was holding Wilson down, then he didn't have a hand free to punch him again. "You don't want to hate her," Wilson said. He fought to keep his voice steady, but it wasn't easy with House straddling him and a dull throb blooming across his jaw. "She was the only good thing you had, and you don't want to lose that. You're scared."

"Shut up, you fucking faggot! Shut up! You don't know the first fucking thing about it!"

Wilson finally managed to feel a trickle of fear winding in a tight coil through his abdomen where House straddled him, but something more determined eclipsed it. He could hear John in that exhortation, but it didn't stop him the way it might have stopped _her_. "Pushed you down, did he?" Grasping at straws now, but it felt like the right direction, and he couldn't have stopped flapping his mouth to save his life. "Made you get on your knees?"

"No!"

"Maybe he slapped you, huh? Drew blood?" He was goading House on and they both knew it, but worse, they also knew that Wilson had finally hit the nail on the head. He finally got it. "Was that it? Could you taste it?"

House backhanded him and Wilson fought to grab his wrist before he could get Wilson pinned again. "_Stop talking_!"

Wilson swallowed back a surge of bile and bit out, "Did he grab your hair to hold you still?" He remembered a time on the couch months ago when House had woken him up with a blowjob, something they didn't normally do with each other. Wilson had held his head still so that he could thrust up, and House had nearly choked on him. Afterwards, House had said he didn't want reciprocation because he'd just taken his pills, but Wilson recalled him flinching from the fingers tangled fierce in his hair, and the pills were hardly a hindrance to House's libido anyway. Wilson should have seen through that flimsy excuse the moment House broke eye contact to utter it. It hadn't been pills that killed the mood.

House's fingers curled into Wilson's shirt as he bowed lower over Wilson's body, eyes cinched shut, head shaking furiously back and forth. Then he dragged Wilson up a few inches by his collar and let him flop back to the floor with a strangled sob. "…stop…"

The clinic in February, and Wilson trying so hard not to cringe at the taste of Cowper's fluid only to have House notice and shove him away, arousal gone, disgusted that Wilson would force himself to do something that he found repulsive. _What the hell were you thinking? I know you hate doing that. _A flash frame of the shower, House on his knees with his head suddenly lowered, swallowing in rapid succession. Barely a flashback at all, but an automatism just the same. Mocking Wilson after he called the whole encounter off and stormed from the tub. …_really wanted you to shove your cock down my throat… _

Wilson peeled one of House's hands from his shirt and held it. He remembered last night, just a few short hours ago, running his hand through House's hair. House had screamed at him for it, because it reminded him of a bad thing. "Bet you choked on it, huh?" Wilson pressed, his own voice cracking at the idea of it, at the cruelty of actually saying it out loud. "Just a little boy. Couldn't breathe, couldn't tell him to stop – "

High pitched and strangled, House demanded, "What the hell is wrong with you? Stop it!" But he gripped back; he squeezed Wilson's hand so hard that Wilson's knuckles ground together.

"He probably said he was sorry after." Wilson caught at House's shoulders as he slumped forward, braced his palm on House's sternum, held him up, their clasped hands sandwiched between. "Pounded on your door when you slammed it in his face and locked it? Said he loved you? Said he never meant to hurt you, but you just pissed him off so much he couldn't help himself? Huh?"

House sniveled out another denial and kept on shaking his head. He managed to choke out a garbled _no_, his free hand pawing for purchase on Wilson's chest. And then he sucked in a hitched breath and sobbed, "I told him to do it."

Wilson stopped, finally, but he merely peered up at House, inscrutable, his elbows braced on the floor and his hands flattened over House's ribs to hold his weight.

"He said – I was an idiot – he wouldn't've hurt her cuz she's his wife."

Wilson cupped the side of House's face and pushed back when House shoved his nose into Wilson's palm, all wet and hot saline.

"And I told him – I told him I'd blow him too if it meant – meant no more lessons. …and then he'd…" House hiccupped and squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, as if afraid that he might catch a glimpse of Wilson's face and see blame there, or pity, or just nothing at all. "…then maybe he'd love me too…like her...like he loved her…cuz she was good enough, but I'm not…m'her mistake…m'a lie…m'proof she lied – I made her bad to him…" House wilted against Wilson's hands, still not looking, eyes closed like he might die if opened them and saw something bad in Wilson's face. "Wilson…"

"Right here." Trembling like an off-pitch tuning fork. Wilson palmed House's jaw and let him push his face into Wilson's hand even though it was quite frankly disgusting, what with the choking sobs and the horrible wetness, House crying so hard that the mucous and the running nose somehow conspired to make him salivate way too much, not to mention the pink tinge from his punctured tongue, and the way it made it look just a little bit like he was frothing at the mouth. It was like trying to love a sniveling little boy who wouldn't shut up, and Wilson felt horrible for thinking it, for having anything but love for him at a moment like this. "I'm right here, House."

"It worked." House mewled thickly in the back of his throat and then wheezed in a new breath. "S'worst part. He never touched me again; it worked. No more lessons." House sputtered incoherently, still not looking, his face beat red from crying, strangely quieter all of a sudden. "No nothing. Not even…pat on the shoulder…nothing…" No reduction in the force of his heaving breaths or the way they quaked in his chest under Wilson's hand, the rest of him shivering and cold. "I'm still…glad. Wilson, I'm still glad he did it."

"Okay, that's enough." Wilson pulled him down and gently tipped him over onto the floor.

House let Wilson pull him in against his stomach and shook a little, beyond resistance. "I wish he'd done it sooner."

Wilson shut his eyes and held House's head to his chest, probably too rough if House's squirming were anything to go by. "Enough. That's enough, House." Wilson winced involuntarily when he pressed his bruised jaw into House's hair, but he didn't pull back. Disjointed words hit Wilson's collarbone, bathed in bursts of hot breath, but Wilson couldn't understand what House was saying now past the hitching of his chest, so Wilson merely shushed him again. "Just stop." In the end, House was right; Wilson really didn't want to know, but none of this had ever been about _wanting_.

"…said he loved me…"

"Shh-shh-shh." Wilson started to draw his hand into a fist at the back of House's head, but he thought better of it and pressed his open palm between House's shoulder blades instead.

"He never said that. Not…like that. Never just said it. S'always, 'you know _we_ love you,' like he has to…has to include himself, not just…not just him…had to be _we_…"

"Don't." Wilson buried his face in House's hair and drew him closer.

"Sorry…sorry, m'sorry – "

"No, House, no – stop it."

"…m'a sick freak…"

"No!"

" – he wouldn' touch me after, not ever – "

"Okay…okay, _please_ stop."

"I didn'…mean it. I didn' mean it…swear I didn' think he would do it…"

"…God, House…"

"S'bad…made him do it an' it's bad – "

"No, you didn't make him. It's not your fault."

"It _is_! I told him to, it is! He wouldn't've done it if I didn't tell him to!"

It wasn't worth arguing over right now; House couldn't listen to him anyway, so Wilson just folded him up and smothered House's protests in his already wet shirt, whispering nonsense in his ear, his lips moving at random against the shell of cartilage. Empty, meaningless shit, but maybe just hearing Wilson's voice would be enough. It probably didn't matter what the words were, anyway. It had never mattered what the words were.

Eventually, Wilson couldn't help deciphering House's continued mumbles, the deep, pitiful rumble against his chest, shame coloring every syllable. _I told them no…I told them no… _Told who? Wilson thought. Them, who? _Wouldn't have wanted you after…wouldn't have still wanted you after…_

"Jesus." Wilson gouged his fingers into the spaces between House's dorsal ribs, he held on so hard. "House, stop. Stop it!" More wet, stammered apologies followed, and squirming, but Wilson ignored them both. "Stop, stop, just _stop_."

To Wilson's horror, House did; he stopped. House curled more tightly against Wilson's chest and stomach, his hands drawn in and clenched to his own chest, and just…stopped.

Wilson lifted his head to find House gazing blankly at the void space between them. "House?" He shifted his hand to run the backs of his fingers lightly across House's scratchy cheek, but House shied into the floor. "Shit. Oh god, I'm so sorry. House…" Then Wilson ducked his head and breathed, "Fuck," into House's shoulder.

House panted lightly in response, like a rabbit terrorized into a stupor, his pulse fluttering in wild tatters under the pads of Wilson's fingers. House didn't smell like House anymore; he smelled like Murphey's Oil Soap and saline, and the bad kind of perspiration. It was a stupid thing to notice, but Wilson found himself tucking away the observation that the cleaning service he had hired had good taste in floor care products. Wilson pulled a face at his own inability to be a proper source of support, and acknowledged, at least to himself, that he really wanted nothing better than to be somewhere else. And that was honestly nothing new. He was crap at this sort of thing. Danny knew that.

Wilson wrenched his thoughts aside and squeezed House once, as if drawing that old sort of moral support that House, strangely enough, seemed to provide him with so often. A reluctant and yet staid anchor – Wilson's only real anchor, and it was floundering. He recognized the helpless tears on his own cheeks and swallowed his self-directed anger as he whispered, "I don't know how to help you."

House stirred and then blinked once, the way he sometimes did when he came back from deep thought, or his medical epiphanies, or when he woke disoriented from a slightly drugged sleep. His voice gravelly, House replied, "I know." His eyes found the moisture on Wilson's face, and he shifted to finger one of the salty lines near Wilson's nose. "S'okay, Wilson."

Wilson that comforted Wilson, it also made him feel like a selfish shit. He should be the one offering comfort now, not House, and it felt like an acknowledgement that House knew he couldn't truly rely on Wilson. Wilson ducked his nose into House's hair as if that might provide a reprieve from his own inadequacy.

"Don't feel bad," House admonished, his voice too soft in the gloom between his own face and Wilson's chest, but forceful nonetheless. "You didn't do anything."

"Maybe that's what I feel bad about."

House narrowed his eyes as he worked that out, but in the end, he just seemed to find Wilson's assertion incomprehensible. In the mean time, Wilson's right arm began to fall asleep, crushed as it was beneath his ribs, and he moved on instinct to free his tingling limb. Of all the things that may have made House panic right now, that had not been one of the ones Wilson considered. "No!" House grabbed his shirt and then groped at his arm to keep him from moving away.

"My arm – "

"Don't go, don't go – " House dragged him back in and sought to crush him, stuffing his face into Wilson's shoulder. Wilson could see House's open eyes staring at the wall over Wilson's shoulder, his continued mumblings muffled in the fabric of Wilson's shirt. Or rather, House's shirt – the one Wilson had stolen last night.

"Okay," Wilson told him. He resigned himself to pins and needles later on in favor of wrapping his arm back over House's shoulders. "I'm not leaving. It's okay."

Into Wilson's shirt, House kept begging him to stay, his fingers curled and twisted into the cotton, eyes wide and temporarily unseeing.

Wilson murmured a wordless reassurance against House's hair and mentally kicked himself for thinking that after all of that, House would just suddenly be fine again. "Okay. I'm right here."

"I didn't want to tell you. I didn't." That angered Wilson, the intimation that knowing the truth might drive him away, but he kept his peace until House snuffed and said, "You're mad."

"I'm not mad," Wilson lied, but it wasn't much of a lie because he wasn't made at _House_. "I'm disturbed."

House's breath hitched unexpectedly and Wilson held him tighter. "I don't want you to go."

"I won't," Wilson hissed. He tried not to grow impatient or upset over House's inability to believe that, but he couldn't help it this time. "I'm not going to leave you just because your father was a sick fuck."

House fell silent for a moment, and then replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "But he wasn't. He was just a crappy dad sometimes."

Wilson shut his eyes and bit back the urge to do everything in his power to convince House otherwise; he knew damn well that it wouldn't work, no matter what he said. House couldn't believe him yet. Instead of a verbal argument, Wilson folded House into himself, bringing his unresisting form as close as possible, and stayed right there on the floor with him.

House squirmed before giving in to Wilson's unyielding embrace. "Don't hate me."

"No!" Wilson assured him. "I don't hate you. I just… I need a second." Wilson turned his head and shoved his mouth into his right hand where it laid immobilized against the floor because lifting his arm to accomplish the same task would have required too much effort, not to mention upsetting House all over again. Into his fingers, Wilson mumbled, "I don't…know what to do with this."

House rolled closer and tucked his head under Wilson's chin without any input from Wilson himself. "It wasn't like this before." From the tone of House's voice, it seemed like he had to keep babbling just to keep the silence at bay, or perhaps to justify being slightly screwed up, as if the facts couldn't speak for themselves. "But now it won't go away, and I don't know why, and I can feel it sometimes when you touch me, and it doesn't make any sense cuz nobody ever made that come back, and the Depakote made it better for awhile, but now I can't make it stop, and I don't want to be afraid of you – "

"Okay, just – just stop." Wilson brushed his fingers over the crown of House's head to ward off whatever else he might have to say, because right now, it was just too much. "I have to think for a second."

"It was only once. Wilson, I swear – "

"Stop! Please."

"Sorry."

"No, you're _not_ sorry. Don't apologize for it. _Ever_." It's not like House could be blamed for it, not even for lying about it up until now. Abuse victims go to incredible lengths sometimes to hide it…especially _that_ kind of abuse. "Okay," Wilson breathed, though he was anything but. "Okay, listen. I know you don't like therapists, but I want you to come with me today. You can sit in the corner if you want, just like we agreed before. You don't have to say anything, but I want you to come. Okay?"

House suddenly became more animated. "You can't tell her – "

"She doesn't need to know," Wilson interrupted. He had heard the fear creeping into House's rushed words, though he couldn't tell what brand of mistrust engendered it this time – the old shame that had led him to forty years of silence, or the old contempt for psychiatry in general. "You can tell her if you want to, but I won't say a word. I won't do that to you."

House deflated in relief. "Cool."

"Yeah." Yeah, right. How was he supposed to get House any help if he wasn't even allowed to mention this morning? How was Wilson supposed to help himself, for that matter? He shouldn't have promised that, but it was too late now. The intractable secrecy had spread to him. Wilson ignored that for now. "And from now on, you _tell_ me if something I'm doing is…is like that. Okay?" Wilson heard the note of anxiety running rampant through his every word, but now did not seem like the time to fake normalcy. "Because I can't figure it out if you don't tell me, and I need to know for your sake. So I can stop."

"I know."

"Good." Wilson bit his lip. "Okay." Wilson couldn't process all of this at once, and now his entire mind was consumed by the horrifying thought that at some point, he had made House feel the way his father had, as if he were being raped. And it made him want to drown himself somewhere filthy. "You can't hide this anymore, House. I know it only came up because of the seizures, and the flashbacks, and those will go away, but you have to talk to me about it at some point." God, Wilson really didn't want to know more than he already did.

"Okay."

In a sudden fit of nerves, Wilson snapped, "Stop agreeing with everything I say! Argue, or – or tell me I'm overreacting – _some_thing."

"Um. You're a moron." It sounded more like a question.

Wilson thumped his head on the floor and groaned. "Thanks. That helps." He opened one eye in time to catch House's smirk, though it was a mere shadow of House's usual expression.

The uneasy frown overtook House's features again, and he focused on Wilson's chest. One long, tapered finger snuck out of the fist he had made around Wilson's shirt to trace the outline of a collarbone. Then he noticed the blossoming bruise on Wilson's jaw and drew back. "I hit you." Horror dawned on him and he shoved against Wilson's chest. "Fuck...Wilson…" He scrambled back until he impacted the wall and then drew his knees up to his chest.

Before House could apologize, Wilson crawled after him and asserted, "I deserved it. House – "

"_No you didn't_!"

It occurred too late that House had just used that same excuse to justify his father's actions, and here Wilson was, inadvertently lumping him into that same category as a justified abuser. Wilson shut his eyes for a moment in self-recrimination, then peered into House's bloodshot, furious eyes; the rest of his face was obscured behind his knobby knees. A wave of déjà vu gripped him as an unbidden memory swept through his mind, of thinking that House looked wrong all crumpled up like that, that such a tall man shouldn't be able to look so small. It was the same observation he had made in the hall outside Danny Lyamone's room.

Unsettled by the overlapping memories, Wilson started to correct his earlier assertion, then stalled out because he couldn't think of a way to put his remark right without committing some other offense – without feeding House's guilt over having punched him in the face. A moment later, he perked up and replied, "It's just payback for when I hit you in the kitchen, okay? We're even now."

House squinted at him, off balance and pissed, but also slightly terrified, if Wilson were any judge at all of House's many muted expressions.

"It's okay. I promise."

"Like I believe you. You're a lying bastard."

Wilson blinked, disconcerted by the lost tone of House's voice and the edge of hysteria caught in a dull glint of blue. He reached a hand toward House's face, but House flinched. "House – "

"Don't fucking touch me, you son of bitch."

"Oh," Wilson breathed, appalled to realize that even though House hadn't succumbed to a flashback, he still wasn't entirely in the hallway with him. "House, it's just me. It's just Wilson."

House stared at him, his whole body trembling against the wall. The edge faded from his expression a moment later, and then he merely replied, "I know that."

Wilson nodded, stifling any sense of relief he felt at the familiar snark, however much an act it may have been. "Good." He cringed at the uncertainty coloring his own voice.

House's eyebrows drew down in a calculating fashion. "Are you okay?"

"Am _I _okay?" Wilson tittered out a manic sort of laugh, then abruptly sobered. "No. But I will be." He hesitated a moment, then inquired, "You?"

House dropped his gaze, his arm muscles twitching as he reflexively hugged his legs tighter. "My tongue hurts."

"Well. At least it's not your leg."

House snorted and ventured a glance at Wilson's face. A tiny smile urged the corner of his mouth up, but just for a moment. "Yeah. Gating mechanism."

Wilson nodded readily, dismayed by how rapidly House found something else to stare at. The phone interrupted whatever Wilson had not figured out how to say, and they both turned to stare toward the living room wearing identical expressions, eyebrows raised in annoyance at the disruption. The answering machine picked up, spooled through House's rude intro, and then beeped over to Foreman's latest report on their patient. All of her symptoms had subsided and they were discharging her later this afternoon.

Once the machine clicked to signal the end of the call, House made a brief face and wondered aloud, "Why is he calling if everything's fine? I don't care if she's fine. I care if she's worse again, or excreting chocolate pudding, or dead. Fine people are boring."

Wilson bobbled his head to the side, shrugging in the process. "Are you going in, then?"

"No," House sneered. The _duh_ was implied, and he glared at Wilson to make sure he knew it. "Fuck it. I'm technically fired anyway."

Wilson chanced a small if queasy smile, but he felt his dimples enter the equation, and that always made House smile back, without fail. House may never admit it, but he liked Wilson's dimples, and Wilson damn well knew it.

House did smile, as expected, but it wasn't his usual smile. This one seemed gentler somehow, and just a tiny bit sad. A furtive light muffled itself in the color of his eyes, but the false sense of dimness only served to heighten the affection secreted within a few covertly revealed shards of blue.

Wilson practically froze when he recognized that smile. "That's why," he blurted out.

House's expression faltered, his brow creasing in confusion. "Why, what?"

"Why I want to marry you," Wilson replied. He pointed at House's face without actually raising his hand. "Because I can put that look on your face." That secret little smile. Wilson's own special smile – the one House never made when he thought Wilson might be looking.

If anything, House looked even more bewildered. "Huh?"

Wilson grinned in a gradual fashion. It had never honestly occurred to him that House might not realize what he was doing, or not doing with that private look of his. "Exactly."

House started to shake his head, then settled for glaring at him. "Exactly, _what_?"

Wilson chuckled outright, his front teeth showing; it was fun, ruffling House like this. He relented, though, since House didn't appreciate being teased over his own ignorance. "Every once in a while, I make you just a little bit happy, and you can't hide it."

House blinked at him, eyed him from the side, and then snorted as he looked away altogether. "Phht. You're an idiot."

"Yeah," Wilson replied. "I know."

"Did you really think I'd mock you for that sappy shit?"

Wilson arched an eyebrow and drawled, "I think you just did."

"Oh." House clucked his cheek, and then shrugged. "Oops."

"Dick."

"You know you like it."

"Well, like you said. I'm an idiot."

House frowned as if he knew that he had just been insulted, but couldn't measure the exact degree of offense to take. Eventually, he gave up and griped, "I don't have to take that from you."

Wilson snorted. "How about I buy you breakfast to make up for it?"

"I might be persuaded to overlook this grievous insult to my impeccable character."

"Good. Because we're playing hooky for real today."

House peered at him sidelong. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

This made House suspicious, which came as no surprise. "You're just being clingy."

Wilson nodded since there was no use denying it. "Can you blame me?"

House considered that, then chirped, "Nope." He obviously recognized ulterior motives, though, as attested to by the shuttering of his expression. "I'm not talking about it."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Yet."

Wilson swallowed and acknowledged, "Yet."

That must have sufficed for now, because House nodded a few times. "Okay."

Wilson responded in kind.

"That's not the real reason, is it? You wouldn't be embarrassed over something stupid like that."

Wilson pursed his lips and sucked in a breath as a prelude to heaving an irritated sigh.

House beat him to a reaction. "It's fine. I only wanted one thing."

"I know. And I'm…sorry. For last night. It felt like an attack."

House nodded. "So you pushed back."

"Yeah," Wilson huffed. He offered an uncomfortable shrug. "We both suck at that crap."

House gave a somewhat shy smirk. "Understatement."

Wilson laughed under his breath and then clambered awkwardly to his feet. A groan squished itself from his chest without conscious volition; he was getting too old for tussling about on the floor. "Ugh. Come on." Wilson started to reach for House, then froze. "Is, um…"

"I'm fine," House snapped. "Lose the kid gloves."

Wilson rolled his eyes and extended his hand, but House didn't take it right away. Concerned, Wilson prompted, "House."

When House merely glanced at the offered hand, Wilson started to pull back, but then House raised his eyes to meet Wilson's. With perfect gravity, he declared, "I love you. You know that, right?"

Wilson's hand wavered in the air between them. "Yeah. I know."

House let his gaze drift downward and then he dipped his head in an abrupt nod. "Good. Just making sure."

"I lo – "

"Lesbian."

Wilson started. "What?"

House quirked an eyebrow and gazed serenely up at him. "That's the only L-word allowed in this apartment, remember? House rules."

Wilson spluttered for a second, then exclaimed, "But you just said – "

"Now, now. This isn't about what _I_ may or may not have said."

Wilson rolled his eyes and grasped House's hand when he reached up. "You're an ass."

"Why, Moopsie. Name-calling is so pedestrian."

Wilson hauled him to his feet and then steadied him by the hips. "You're right, Muffin Buns. It's totally beneath us."

If that smirk were anything to go by, House fully approved of Wilson's pedestrian behavior. "Damn straight. Now buy me pancakes."

--TBC


	39. Chapter 39

**A/N about Vicodin/opiate withdrawal: ** Some things you should know, for those of you unfamiliar with the symptoms of Vicodin withdrawal/opiate withdrawal in general: the symptoms start to show between 12 and 24 hours after the last dose. The initial onset may seem subtle when compared to what canon shows us, and generally starts with things like chills and hot flashes, cold clammy skin, shivering, slight cramping of the abdomen, red bloodshot/watery eyes and a runny nose. These symptoms progress to worse abdominal cramping and diarrhea, muscle twitches, restless leg syndrome, general restlessness and an urge to move/pace, more severe forms of all the original symptoms but tending more toward severe chills than hot flashes, nausea and painful stomach cramping, vomiting. Then progresses further, on top of all the former, to things like severe lethargy, possible hallucinations depending on the person/severity of the withdrawal, the sensation of being covered in bugs/itching and such (delusional parasitosis, which may or may not actually include the hallucination of bugs), and oddly enough, extremely painful cramps and spasms in the legs and thighs (which as you can imagine would be even worse for House). Throughout this entire process, people often become subject to black moods and bouts of depression - the worse off the person was before, then the worse the depression during detox will be, sometimes to the point where suicidal tendencies emerge and hospitalization/ monitoring becomes necessary. In addition to that, the body feels starved of endorphins when detoxing, now that it is missing the rush caused by the high of the pills. This means that when the body feels pain, it feels it more acutely than it normally would (endorphins serve the purpose, among other things, of dulling pain in the body, so without them...you see where I'm going.) Paradoxically enough, pain itself causes an endorphin rush, which the body craves, hence House's canon habit of self harm when deprived of Vicodin. And now I think I have said enough...I just wanted that all up front because the tiny alterations in House's behavior in this section are detox-induced to a certain point. I wanted the influence of it on his changing moods to be sort of clearer.

**Previous chapter summary**: House announced his intention to stop taking Vicodin, a tiny argument ensued, and then Wilson needled House until House punched him. After more prodding, House confessed parts of the thing that happened when he was twelve. House agreed to accompany Wilson to a therapy session, but did not commit to actually speaking in it. Wilson confessed that one of the reasons he loves House is because every once in a while, he can make House just a little bit happy, and House can't stop it from happening. House called Wilson a sappy idiot and Wilson didn't mind.

* * *

In his heart of hearts, Wilson must have known that the joviality would not last long. And yet, finding House perched on the closed toilet lid, fully clothed with his hands laced across the back of his neck to hold his head down, still took him by surprise. The shower had been running for almost fifteen minutes already, and Wilson had only come in to brush his teeth, not to bug House. After he walked in, however, Wilson had no choice but to deal with it somehow. He turned off the water, which had run cold, and then knelt down in front of House, tugging at House's wrists with both hands to make him let go of his white-knuckled grip on himself. House reacted with a sigh a tight press of his lips, a little distracted in the midst of his awkward annoyance, none of it directed at Wilson. He looked away, past Wilson's shoulder, with a pained look on his face, and then noticed that the shower wasn't running anymore. He must have forgotten what he was doing.

Wilson stopped him from going back to his morning routine, citing the lack of hot water, and House blinked before limping over to wash himself down with a cloth at the sink. Wilson explained the silence off as a throbbing tongue, and House accommodated that assumption by smiling and rolling his eyes and flipping him off at all the appropriate junctures. Nothing else in his demeanor suggested a problem, so Wilson dismissed the silence and filled in the snarky comments and both sides of the banter for himself. House seemed to appreciate it, considering the grateful little quirks of his lips and the sly, sidelong glances he kept tossing out. The bitten tongue was an obvious excuse for silence, obvious to both of them, but the easy smiles probably should have garnered at least a little more of Wilson's suspicion than they actually did. House wasn't prone to smiling all the time like that; he thought it made a person appear simple-minded to cheek a grin at everything. Then again, Wilson preferred an edge of creepy ease to the alternative, which was House screaming obscenities at him, or just plain screaming like the night before, or in the hotel bathroom, or convulsing on a cold sidewalk. Wilson made a mental note to be more observant, however, because House's lost moments and unusual quietude could just as easily be continued minor seizures as an odd, post-emotional-release lassitude.

Breakfast at Mickey's Diner was a singularly awkward affair, at least for Wilson. And the irony was not lost on him, for all the times that House had joked over his womanish clinginess and his penchant for cuddling. After fussing over the livid bruise coloring Wilson's jaw (and receiving the first manufactured excuse that Wilson could think of, which was something inane like he had tripped over the coffee table), their usual waitress led them to their usual booth, and Wilson slid into his usual side, leaving House the bench that faced the rest of the diner so that he could watch, dissect and mock the other customers. Except House didn't sit down in his usual spot; he slid right in next to Wilson and crowded him in against the wall. The booth wasn't small, but considering that there were only two of them, there was no good reason for them to squish together like that. Still, Wilson couldn't find it in himself to draw attention to it, because after House tossed his cane over onto the empty bench, he looked at Wilson. _Looked_ at him as if ninety percent of him knew that he was annoying Wilson while the other ten couldn't bring itself to beg Wilson not to shove him away.

So Wilson gave him a nervous smile, glanced around to make sure no one was paying them any inordinate amount of attention, and then linked his right arm through House's left so that they weren't knocking elbows. It also left each of their dominant hands free, so it's not like Wilson could view the close quarters as much of an inconvenience at that point. And it made House fight not to grin outright, his lips quirked, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, probably to lend a point of pain to the battle against his unmanly glee. That, and their waitress thought it was the most adorable thing ever, which led to her 'accidentally' forgetting to charge them for House's extra hash browns or Wilson's orange juice. House scowled at her every time she bustled over to titter over them, but she even declared _that_ to be the cutest thing she had ever seen. Wilson was merely thankful that full withdrawal hadn't hit yet, and that House retained most of his appetite for now, despite the shivering and the feverish sheen that spent all morning slowly encroaching on his irises.

By the time they left, House was grumbling under his breath in spite of his sore, swollen tongue, and Wilson had long since refused to relinquish his arm, his grin intractable even if House's slight trembling put a damper on the contented warmth brewing in his chest. Being not only out in public, but _out_ in public, wasn't nearly as mortifying as Wilson had thought it would be. Of course, House's stormy demeanor and the practiced wielding of his cane may have had something to do with silencing and diverting any less-than-friendly glances, but Wilson didn't care one wit. Strolling down the sidewalk toward his Volvo without an artificial buffer zone spanned between them felt like freedom, and judging by House's half-hearted protests, the larger part of him agreed. House seemed, if not happy, then at least mildly bemused by the whole thing, however much he tried to hide it behind the griping.

That creepy edge lingered, however, and Wilson noticed that when they reached the car, House's fingers dawdled on Wilson's forearm as Wilson pulled away, and not out of affection. He had that look on his face again, the one he gets when he thinks he's done something that Wilson is going to pissed over – the one he gets right before he knows Wilson is about to storm out and leave him to wallow in his own mess. Wilson indulged in a moment in self-castigation as he circled the car, watching through the windows as House settled in the passenger seat and tugged the seat belt into place. He couldn't help wondering how many times he had walked out and left House to stew and give up, and go back to taking pills in lieu of reaching out to his only friend. Looking back, Wilson couldn't actually think of anything that had felt like a veiled plea for help, but then again, Wilson didn't really know what he should have been looking for beyond the drinking and the extra demands for Vicodin. And the stalking. Those were probably all pleas, but House had always been House, and no one – _no one_ – had ever recognized a gesture in House's self-destructive tendencies besides the obvious depression and a disregard for his own well-being.

It was stupid, Wilson thought; those should have been enough. If not Wilson, then _someone_ should have seen them for what they were. Wilson had known that House was depressed, that he needed to take something for it. Hell, Wilson had drugged him for three weeks without his knowledge in a bid to make him at least marginally happy. Where the fuck had the disconnect come from? Convenience? Was Wilson really so selfish that he would have left his best friend to rot just to save himself the extra aggravation? Were his overtures only made insofar as they didn't cross a threshold of just how put-out Wilson was willing to be? Or was he just that scared, too scared to deal with it in depth for fear of how spectacularly he might fail, or how hard it would be, or how far House could really fall when cornered and forced to fight back against a helping hand?

By the time they pulled into the PPTH parking lot, Wilson's good mood had worn off and House had his forehead pressed to the cool plexi-glass of the passenger side window, his eyes closed and his right hand clenched over his bad thigh. When Wilson shifted into park, House blinked his eyes open long enough to orient himself, then sniped, "Thought you said we were playing hooky."

Wilson threw him a surreptitious glance as he pulled the key from the ignition, matching the wavering slur in House's voice to the light sweat creating a greasy sheen on his brow and temples. "We are. I just need to redirect some patient files, and then we have a therapy appointment."

House grimaced, though the pain was mental rather than physical. "What's the point of playing hooky if you have to spend half the day at work anyway?"

"We'll be home by one-thirty," Wilson replied. He tried for sharp, but barely made it past sympathetic. And he didn't like the weak edge to House's tone. "You need to follow up with Foreman anyway. Last night was…" He was going to say _bad_, a pretty understatement, but settled for, "You should get another EEG."

"M'sick of getting poked and prodded," House griped, but he finally lifted his head from the window and looked down as a prelude to fumbling his way out of the car. Then he shut his eyes again and swallowed thickly. "And I don't wanna be here for this."

Wilson nodded even though House wasn't looking at him. Nausea was finally setting in. "I know. We'll be out of here before you can say Bob's-your-uncle."

House opened his eyes only to squint unseeing at the dashboard. "I don't have an Uncle Bob."

Wilson rolled his eyes as House shoved the door open and untangled himself from the seatbelt. Under his breath, Wilson retorted, "It's just a saying."

"Stupid saying."

"Yes, House," Wilson sighed, supplicating the ceiling as he made his own way from the car. "It's a stupid saying. I'm sorry I ever said it." And so the irritability phase of the withdrawal begins. For both of them. Wilson snickered to himself at that; the two of them were so co-dependant that House couldn't even go through withdrawal without dragging Wilson in on the misery of it, not that Wilson could help himself. It was like a more sordid version of Couvade Syndrome. And that, Wilson mused, pretty much summed up their entire attraction to each other, even if there was some twisted brand of love involved.

On the other side of the car, House dragged himself upright with one arm draped over the top of the door, and Wilson winced both at House's indrawn hiss and the Volvo's protesting creak of metal door joints. House hung off the door for a few extra seconds, then pivoted on his good leg and hopped far enough out of the way to slam the door shut. "Wilson?"

Since House didn't seem inclined to move yet, Wilson folded his arms on the roof of the Volvo, his keys dangling from one finger. "Yeah?"

"We need to get something straight."

Wilson arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

"About the Vicodin thing."

Wilson mentally parroted _the Vicodin thing_ as if it were a ludicrous way to refer to a serious addiction, and to the underlying medical condition that had spawned it. Perfectly bland, Wilson asked, "What about it?"

House started to answer, faltered, and then seemed to lose whatever impetus had hardened him so far. He twisted himself to stretch his left side out along the car's frame, left arm crooked on the roof in a similar half-pose to Wilson's own, and eased the weight from his right leg. Finally, he simply stated, "If you can't do this, tell me now, and I'll check in someplace."

Wilson's first reaction was outrage. "What, you think I'll sabotage you?"

Quietly, perhaps in deference to Wilson's hurt feelings or in an effort to convey empathy of some Housian sort, House replied, "I think that if I change my mind halfway through, you won't be able to say no to me."

Wilson flared his nostrils, started to retort, and then found that he had nothing to say. He settled his chin in the crook of his elbow instead and studied the dust pattern on the roof of his car. He should drive through a car wash at some point today.

"You can't cave, Wilson."

"I think I'm insulted," Wilson snapped. "If you say you want to do this – "

"What about when I start begging you for a pill?" House broke in. His cheeks flushed as if in preemptive embarrassment, and he thumped his cane with his eyes trained on the ground at his feet. "How about when the withdrawal gets so bad, I start crying? Or the dry heaves hurt so much I can barely breathe?"

"Compazine," Wilson came back, determined to show nothing but flint in response to House's doubts of his character.

Undeterred, House pressed, "And when I start tearing the apartment to pieces looking for a stash that one of us might have overlooked? Are you going to stop me?"

Wilson glanced up, a movement of his eyes only, to find that House still wasn't looking at him.

"How about when I tell you that I was an idiot, and I was wrong about stopping cold turkey, and it would be better to titre down, especially with the seizures, and can't you just give me _one_ pill? Can you say no, Wilson? Or when I start screaming from the referred pain, how about then? Could you say no then?"

Against his will, Wilson pictured it: House drenched in sweat, cold, shivering, crying, eyes puffy and bloodshot, voice a bare rasp after hours of dry heaves, his throat stung raw by the stomach acids, piteously begging Wilson for just one pill to calm the symptoms, beyond the pride necessary to keep his own composure. One pill. Just one wouldn't hurt, it wouldn't even really matter, but it would help him feel better, it would take away just a little bit of the pain that the withdrawal echoed in the damaged nerves of his bad leg, just one. Surely Wilson wouldn't begrudge him that, would he? And when Wilson said no, what then? More crying, outright sobbing? Hurled insults and castigations? Physical violence? Or worse, self-harm? House had cut himself often enough before when the withdrawal got too bad, had broken his own hand…what else might he do if Wilson refused him?

The silence went on too long and House prompted, "Could you?"

Wilson wrenched himself back to the parking lot, surprised to feel a light breeze caressing his face, tinged in the warm, nostalgic fragrance of early summer. House was looking at him, waiting, his face betraying that underlying suspicion that whatever House really needed at any given time, Wilson would either refuse to give him, or be entirely unable to provide. Wilson hated that expression, even if he did often deserve it. "Yes," he replied without thinking. "I can say no to you, House."

"Don't just say it because you think you're supposed to," House snapped. If anything, he seemed put off by Wilson's attempt at assurance. "There are plenty of programs. I could check into – "

"We both know you'd find a way to cheat, just like the last time."

House stopped mid-sentence and blinked at him.

Wilson wondered for a moment if he'd gone too far. To appease both of them, he added, "I think you meant it when you first checked yourself in, House." Unbidden, he recalled the first day or two of Tritter-prompted rehab. House couldn't have faked it, not initially. "I really do. I think you wanted to go through with it, but an opportunity presented itself, and Voldemort…well." Wilson shrugged. "He should have been fired for that."

House only acknowledged that by looking down, and then out across the parking lot with a faintly sickened expression.

"If this is what you want…" Wilson trailed off, overcome by the acidic burning in his gut that signaled apprehension at the visceral level. He needed a calcium tablet. "Tell me it's what you want, and I swear – I won't give you a Vicodin ever again, even if I do think it's crappy timing, and that you haven't thought it through."

House's eyebrows moved nonspecifically, and he frowned at his cane where he was mashing it into the pavement, twisting it back and forth like a nervous tic. "What, you think I don't know what I'm getting myself into? I've gone through withdrawal before; I know what it's like."

Hesitant to set off a temper, to confirm House's long-held belief that Wilson was a shameless enabler, Wilson replied, "I think this is a knee-jerk reaction to the police accusations and the threat of losing your license for practicing while under the influence of narcotics."

"I wasn't practicing."

Gently, Wilson replied, "I know."

More vehement this time, House added, "And it was an accidental overdose."

"I know." Wilson matched the force of his words to House's. "But I still don't think you're doing it for the right reasons."

House's cheek twitched as if he had caught a whiff of something unpleasant, and then he flared his nostrils, turning his face away so that Wilson couldn't see it.

"If you're not doing it for the right reasons, it won't stick," Wilson insisted. "You have to know that, House. You have to _want_ it."

"I do," House insisted, but he didn't seem entirely certain of that.

Wilson sighed and contemplated his folded arms. "Medically, this isn't smart."

With an air of petulance, House groused, "I thought you wanted me clean."

Wilson snorted, bemused by his own reaction. "House, I just plain want you. For as long as I can have you."

"You'd have longer this way."

Wilson's tiny half-smile faded. "Don't, House. Don't make this about me. You had some good reasons this morning. Or better ones, at least. But if you're only really doing this because – "

"I said I wanted to be here to enjoy you," House cut in, his voice clipped and angry over the need to explain himself in less than logical terms. In emotional ones, that is. "And I _don't_ want to live the rest of my life chained to a pill bottle, begging refills out of you and pretending I don't notice how much it hurts you to keep prescribing for me when you know it's slowly killing me. I took advantage of you, Wilson; I always knew you couldn't really say no, not if I was in pain, not if you could see it. I have to do this. Now, while I still want to."

Wilson felt compelled to ask, "And if I weren't here? If we weren't in a relationship, if it weren't for me being here, with you, would you still do it?"

House didn't even hesitate. "I'd be dead already, so it doesn't matter."

Wilson wondered if that were a confession or just an acknowledgement, and then decided that he'd rather not know. "Okay." Wilson cleared his throat on a nervous impulse, then promised, "I won't give you another Vicodin, no matter what you do or say."

It seemed like the full weight of it settled over them at that, became real to them. House nodded, more ill at ease than grateful, then straightened and jerked his head at the hospital. "If you're going to chart anyway, then I should check in with my team."

Wilson nodded as well and slipped away from the car, stuffing his keys into his pocket as he withdrew. He didn't even contradict the charting comment because he knew as well as House did that he would end up working for an hour or so no matter what he said to the contrary. "After last night, I really do want you to get another EEG, and I'll pick up supplies from the pharmacy before we leave."

"Fine. Good." House moved his head downward in a choppy affirmation, then limped toward the front entrance.

"House."

House paused and threw a shuttered look over his shoulder. Did he think that Wilson was about to renege?

"I need a list of all the places you didn't clean out before."

House features pinched, and he faced forward again before nodding. Of course, there were other stashes; House could never have brought himself to throw everything away. He needed to be prepared, just in case, always just in case. It was a sad reality that he had always felt a need to hide away a last resort, because House could never tell anymore when he might be cut off. It might have been the behavior of an addict, but it was also the behavior of a man who had been left too many times to suffer alone, in intractable pain, with no other recourse but to either shoot himself full of morphine and risk respiratory distress, or pop more Vicodin knowing that he would soon run out of refills. But it seemed a small breakthrough that House didn't even deny that there were other stashes, more ingenious ones that he knew Wilson would never find on his own, and that if Wilson hadn't asked, he would have kept their existence to himself. "I'll write it out."

"Thank you." Which act or motive he was thanking House for, Wilson couldn't really tell. But he meant it, and the tone of his voice betrayed his utter sincerity.

House snuffed, done with the heart-to-heart moment, and hobbled off on his way again. He flapped a hand in Wilson's general direction and simply replied, "Whatever."

* * *

Wilson took his time reassigning the majority of his most urgent cases, and then scheduled himself for two weeks of vacation. His assistant gave him an odd look when he told her, but after he mumbled something about taking some time off to spend with House, some cute little smirk took over her face. She seemed to be under the impression that Wilson was talking about some sort of vacation or – and here, he actually cringed at the idea – a honeymoon. And yes, word of his proposal to House had spread like a match to a trail of rocket fuel. Everyone knew. Everyone. Wilson wanted nothing better than to play ostrich with a patch of sand. It was one thing for he and House to be obviously together at a diner, or while walking down a street corner, but having the ultra-concentrated scrutiny of people who _knew_ both of them, and who felt entitled to gossip for some reason, as if they had a right to know all about the details of their relationship by virtue of employment proximity…that part annoyed Wilson.

The other part that annoyed Wilson was how everyone made a point of not looking at or asking about the knuckle-shaped bruise on his jaw. It didn't hurt all that much, as House's fist had more or less skimmed the jaw bone and hit Wilson's softer cheek tissue, but even considering how faint the discoloration was, just some splotchy reddish-purple marks that looked more like one of those spackled immunization shots from the late seventies than a cuff mark, it showed up like paint splatters against Wilson's pale, clean-shaven face. And yet aside from a nervous flicker of eyes quickly averted from the mark, everyone went out of their ways not to notice it. As if Wilson were in the habit of showing up to work looking like he may have been involved in a minor brawl. Hell; maybe they all figured it was House's doing and that he must have deserved it or something. After the conversation Wilson had overheard in his own oncology break room yesterday, that wouldn't really surprise him. Whatever.

Wilson passed by the Diagnostics conference room on his way to the secondary elevator bank, which he only headed towards _because_ it would take him past House's office. A quick glance inside revealed House's team clustered around a table piled high with reference materials, their coffee cups and travel mugs scattered amongst the debris. Wilson slowed as he searched for House's absent form somewhere in the mess of open textbooks, files and single-page lab reports. That was odd, Wilson thought; he had left House right there by the whiteboard before he retreated to his own office. He walked far enough to see into House's office, and then wandered to a stop in front of the frosty letters of House's name embossed on the door. The office was empty too, but a half-filled milk crate sat in the middle of House's desk. Trinkets littered the bottom of the crate – House's fuzzy ball, a pencil cup, and the only stuffed animal House had ever consented to having in his presence, the spirokete that Kutner had found online and left sitting on House's chair after the fake syphilis prank that House had pulled on his team, the one where he made them believe that 'curing' him had rendered him nice yet stupid. But no House.

Wilson craned his neck and leaned all over the glass like an idiot, his hands cupped against the pane to block the glare so that he could see out the balcony door, but it didn't look like House was out there either. With a puzzled sound, Wilson dropped his hands and glanced at the industrious fellows once more before he resumed his trek to the elevators. On a whim, he stuck his head in the men's room as he passed it by, just in case the withdrawal had progressed faster than he expected, but the only person in there was the day janitor, replacing a packet of tissue-paper toilet seat covers. Wilson touched his index finger to his forehead in a self-conscious sort of salute and backed out into the hall, ignoring the strange look that the janitor shot him for his trouble. Maybe House was having a cigarette. As much as Wilson hated that thought, he grudgingly admitted that he preferred a smoking House to a pill-popping House. It wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, after all; House had smoked like a chimney back before the infarction, when Wilson had first met him.

In the back of his mind, Wilson parroted _contributing factor_ and _clotting disorder_, plus one of his less polite epithets for an exasperating House, and continued on his way. As a department head, Wilson observed a few unnecessary but courteous habits, such as letting Cuddy know in person when he would be out of the office for an extended period. He wasn't sure anymore if he was mad at her personally for what was going on with House's career, or if she was merely the most convenient target he had found so far. In any case, he wanted to know if she had spoken to Stacy yet about House's book, and in the interests of being fair, he realized that it wouldn't do him any good to hold a grudge against her. For the most part, she really was just doing her job, and House's problems were more with the police and the medical board than with her.

Still, she wasn't helping matters. But Wilson couldn't gain anything by pissing her off, so he figured that for now at least, it would be best to play nice, if only because House wouldn't.

As he passed the pharmacy, Wilson made a mental note to pick up supplies before he left, and to stop by the rehab wing for a brief chat with one of the doctors up there. Wilson knew pretty much what to expect, as a doctor himself, but a consult never hurt anyone, and those people dealt with this sort of thing every day. They would know if Wilson was overlooking something important. On second thought, Wilson detoured to the pharmacy window first and pulled out his prescription pad. That was where House found him ten minutes later, lounging around the clinic counter while Marco filled the scripts and trying not to look like he was flirting with the nurses even though he really wasn't flirting with the nurses. Somehow, no matter what he did, Wilson ended up flirting; it was like his albatross.

House limped through the clinic doors, his gaze bypassing Wilson as only House's eyes could, studiously not looking at the focus of his attention. Wilson took the opportunity to eye him over and noted that House seemed to be favoring his right leg only a little more than usual. He also appeared paler than normal, and perhaps a bit peaked, but nothing serious. So far, so good, then; withdrawal progressing slowly.

As House came up alongside Wilson, he pivoted on his good leg and crashed his elbows into the countertop, posed like a bored little boy leaning on a display case at a museum full of things that held no interest for him. He leaned toward Wilson, his head swaying aside with the movement, and declared loudly enough for the whole waiting room to hear, "How's that anal fissure?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and tried to shrug off all the sudden stares, his mouth fixed in that plastered smile he seemed to wear whenever he wanted people to know that they should humor House but not take him seriously. The embarrassed one, really, considering that his face burned a little bit whenever he put that look on. Once most of the curious onlookers had gone back to their insufficient diversions, Wilson stuck his nose right in front of House's and hissed, "If you insist on staking your claim to me in the middle of the damn hospital, could you at least _try_ to mitigate the mortification factor?"

House merely stared back at him, his face blank, and then loudly proclaimed, "Guess our honeymoon will have to wait. No butt sex for you for at least a month." Then he gave one of his fake little guffaws, the kind that always heralded something worse than the last dig and that never failed to make Wilson cringe in anticipation. "But _wow_, last night was so worth it, you spunky little catamite. I knew we'd eventually find some use for that glider." There was a subtle undercurrent to the ribbing, however, and Wilson noted how House's eyes carried just a little too much flint under the suggestively raised eyebrows, and how his gaze lingered a second too long on Wilson's. The moment snapped a heartbeat later and House pushed himself upright, planting his cane with more care than usual. In a normal conversational tone, House said, "Cuddy wants to see us before we leave." He jerked his head toward her office and shuffled sideways a bit. "Come on. After we deal with the wicked bitch of the west, I want to go home."

"I have therapy," Wilson reminded him. More sternly, he added, "And so do you. Remember? We agreed this morning."

House's face darkened just enough for Wilson to notice, but he kept his stony mask in place as he clipped out, "Fine. Cuddy, head-shrinking, then home. Now move it, man tart. She said _now_ when she called me, and that was like…" House turned abstract for a second, gazing at the ceiling as if lost, and then finished, "…half an hour ago. She should be sufficiently steeped by now." Without waiting to see if Wilson followed, House spun on his left foot and gimped off, his tall form listing from one side to the other as he walked.

Wilson spared a glance for Marco, who shrugged at his rookie pharmacy assistant, and then shoved his hands in his pockets as he sloughed along in House's wake. He hated it when new pharmacists showed up at the hospital; they never knew where anything was, and filling scripts took twice as long for the first month or so.

It was pointless trying to hold House back from Cuddy's office when they noticed that she was occupied with other people, but he stammered out a half-hearted protest at the outer doors anyway.

"Funny, though, isn't it?" House replied. "How you aren't even slowing down." He threw Wilson a pointed look over his shoulder and then shoved through the more decorative inner set of oak doors. "Cuddy! Got your text message. I think a threesome is a great idea but Wilson's a little squicky on it. I brought him in here so you can talk him into it." He stabbed his cane into the carpet and skewed his weight onto it before feigning an overly-dramatic surprised face and letting out a perfectly false self-conscious laugh. "Oh, I'm sorry. You have company! We were just joshing her. She's really a very respectable professional." Of course, House followed that up with an obnoxious wink.

Cuddy rolled her eyes and then addressed her original visitors, who Wilson figured for lawyers. "Gentlemen, would you excuse us? You can email me the rest of the paperwork."

Both strangers quirked dubious eyebrows, but they shook Cuddy's hand across her desk and then gathered their briefcases from beside their chairs before giving House a wide berth on the way out. Wilson tried to look apologetic, but he wasn't sure he entirely succeeded; House's antics rankled him less and less the more time went by. One of these days, he would be so completely immune to it that he wouldn't even notice the inappropriate comments anymore.

House smiled benevolently at the two lawyers as they left, more a shark with his teeth showing like that than any lawyer Wilson had ever met. Once they were gone, it was like House shed an invisible costume, and he turned on unsteady feet to face Cuddy. "What do you want?"

Cuddy snorted. "And good morning to you too."

House retorted, "The only thing good about it is that I'm going home in less than two hours. _What do you want_?"

Gently, Wilson admonished, "House."

To Wilson surprise, and gratitude, House backed down rather than escalating in response to the soft, almost paternal note in Wilson's voice. Normally, that tone merely goaded House to more intolerably scathing displays; and yet, for some reason, Wilson kept using it even though he knew that. What exactly did that say about him?

Cuddy waited until House had rolled his eyes just to pacify his own ego, and then let a smile sneak out. "Before we get into it, I wanted to let you know that I talked the medical school into buying the rights to your book."

Wilson's stomach dropped as his eyes widened, and he tried to signal Cuddy to shut up with a series of understated, choppy hand movements at throat level. He turned them into an unconvincing bid to itch his neck when House gave him a weird look.

Cuddy didn't notice Wilson's attempts to kill the topic; she was too busy gazing at House as if he had finally given her a pleasant surprise, mixed with a selfish sort of pride at being a source of what she must have considered magnanimity. "They're already negotiating to license the printing rights to a handful of other medical schools. You'll be on the shelves before Christmas." She gave him a warm smile. "Congratulations."

Wilson planted his face in his palm and shook his head, cringing even as he noted House shifting his weight beside him. "You _what_?"

Cuddy grinned. "I bought your book, House." She twirled her hands in the air to indicate that she expected him to say something. "Generally, this is the sort of thing you thank people for, but since it's you we're talking about, I'll settle for a simple lack of insults. It really is a good book; Stacy sent me one of the advance copies. It reads like Harold Klawans."

"Cuddy." Wilson kept his hand over his face, but he swished the other at her in a blatant bid to stop her from saying anything more.

"You son of a bitch. You told her about it?"

Wilson looked up at the muted outrage in House's voice.

Cuddy diverted his attention by explaining in a puzzled tone, "Wilson told me what Harvard did. He suggested I call Stacy about it." She clearly didn't understand why House should find this so upsetting, and why would she? Wilson hadn't told her that House didn't know about Harvard dropping their publication plans. He had intended to tell House himself at a more opportune time, except that he had then forgotten all about it.

House stared at Cuddy for a moment, and then turned to Wilson with wide, bewildered eyes. "Why would you do that? Harvard already bought it – they _commissioned _it. I didn't even want Princeton to know I wrote it."

"I know." Wilson swallowed the automatic slew of appeasements that sprung to his lips, and instead simply confessed, "They left a message on your machine earlier this week. They pulled publication because of the…the bad press. I didn't want you to know; you've dealt with enough crap lately, and I just…" He shrugged off a sigh and implored House with a guilty expression to see that he had only been trying to help, to make things just a tiny bit fair in House's world. "I asked Cuddy to see if there was anything she could do." Wilson tried for sheepish because he knew that it normally served to soothe House's anger, but he didn't think he made it much farther than queasy.

House merely looked at him, his craggy face lined in wounded disbelief, and then he dropped his gaze to the floor where the tip of his cane touched the edge of his sneaker.

Wilson shut his eyes for a moment in self recrimination and then made a contrite face at Cuddy. "This is my fault," he told her. "I didn't… I went behind his back, and – "

"Stop it, Wilson." House tapped his cane once on the carpet and then shuffled awkwardly to the left to put an extra foot between them. The pointed increase in physical distance made Wilson feel about two inches tall, and he knew that House meant for him to notice and to infer that he felt betrayed. "You thought you were being nice."

Wilson really didn't want to have a discussion like this in front of Cuddy, but his mind teemed with the way House had once told him that he only trusted Wilson to be Wilson, and no farther. Rather than say anything more, Wilson filed it away to address later; he didn't even want to risk an apology in front of a semi-hostile witness because he couldn't predict how House might react to it. The last thing either of them needed was to rope each other into one of their infamous fights with Cuddy standing three feet away from them. Wilson pursed his lips instead and gestured haltingly at Cuddy to go on with whatever she had really called them in here for.

Cuddy's gaze shifted uneasily between the both of them, but she apparently decided – like Wilson – that the subject of the book was better left alone for now. "Right. Um." She tucked a few stray hairs back into the clip above her ear and then drew herself up with the sort of forced professionalism that any good administrator could fake in a pinch. "I wanted you both in here because in a way, this concerns you both." She waited until House looked up with obvious annoyance at the protracted pause, and Cuddy caught his eye. "I'm not firing you." Before Wilson could do more than round his mouth in surprise, she added, "But there will be conditions to your continued employment."

House didn't react at all, not at first, so Wilson gestured to him and exclaimed, as if trying to convince him, "This is good!"

His expression still completely blank, House let his gaze cut off to the side, his tongue moving to work up some saliva.

Baffled, Wilson prompted, "House? This _is _a good thing, right?"

"What conditions?" House demanded, his voice low and wary. Even on the best of days, House could rarely be described as exuberant, but the degree of chill to his words seemed excessive, and counter to the sentiment behind Cuddy's. If it were Wilson whose career hung in the balance like this, Wilson would be hunched over in the chair playing meek and dying of gratitude just to ensure that she didn't change her mind at the last minute. House, on the other hand, reacted to Cuddy's goodwill as to a threat.

Wilson glanced at the floor before shooting a sympathetic look at House's back, where House couldn't see it. House couldn't trust this stroke of good fortune; he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. With more civility than House, Wilson held up both hands in a gesture of pacification and echoed House's earlier question. "What are the conditions?"

Cuddy glanced between them, drawing a deep breath as if to fortify herself, then directed her attention to House. "First, you will submit to twice-weekly blood tests, to be administered at random by me, to monitor your Vicodin intake. Second – "

Wilson's civility evaporated on the spot and he interrupted with, "Like hell he will." He crossed his arms over his chest, his posture forbidding, well aware that he was overcompensating a little with the protective instinct in a bid to redeem himself for his gaffe with the book. But Wilson had already been down this road with House, the I-know-your-pain-better-than-you-do-so-you-should-do-what-I-say-no-matter-what-you-think-about-it road. Cuddy had been there before too, for that matter, which only further ruffled Wilson's sensibilities concerning House. "You can't mandate a patient's medication intake as a condition of continued employment."

"That's true," Cuddy agreed far too readily. Sure enough, she kept speaking. "But what I _can _do is _monitor_ my employee's medication intake as a condition of his being hired at all. On paper, House's employment at the hospital is being terminated by a directive of the board. He will then be hired back as an employee of the teaching college. I can mandate whatever I want, assuming House wants the job."

Wilson glowered at her. "Fine. Then in that case, as his doctor, all I have to do is show you a valid script for whatever you find in his system."

"You're not his doctor anymore; I checked his files. And even if you were, you're marrying him, Wilson. You're not objective, and you can't testify as to his medical needs in front of a board of his peers."

"I live with him! If anyone can testify as to his pain levels, it's me."

Cuddy stood her ground, entrenched as she was behind her desk with her paperwork to shield her from Wilson's stubborn wrath. "Not anymore, not since it became public knowledge that you're a couple. You're biased, Wilson; the determination of what's _reasonable_ has to be made by a third party."

Wilson fumed for a moment, but he refused to give up this ground, more so because House was just standing there beside him playing bored and probably trying to hide the fact that Wilson's secret keeping habits still stung. "Fine. Then _Ngyen_ will provide full medical records, including the prescriptions he wrote House for Vicodin and Fentanyl, and Foreman will corroborate whatever he says. You can't win this one, Lisa. Pain is not a bargaining chip – this isn't puzzles versus pills anymore." Wilson knew that his next comment would hit way below the belt, but he said it anyway. "This is House dealing with a leg that _you_ helped cripple. You can't gouge out his thigh muscles and leave him with irreversible nerve damage, and then tell him he's not allowed to take pain medication for it."

A hand showed up on Wilson's arm, startling him into dropping his arms and taking a step back. Wilson looked at House and found a softness there, tempered by that sneaky sort of amusement that it seemed sometimes only House could feel. Humor born of cruel irony. Looking at the unusual pallor to House's skin, Wilson reminded himself that this whole part of the argument was moot now anyway; House wasn't taking the Vicodin anymore. He would detox, and in a week or two, he would be back on his feet and opiate-free. The idea of submitting to the tests only to have Cuddy find no opiates in his system whatsoever probably appealed to him. At first, she would think he had found a way to cheat, and after she realized that he hadn't, she would simply be floored. With a grudging sigh, Wilson shrugged, but he glared one last time at Cuddy before he paced a few steps away to cool off.

Cuddy caught Wilson's eye as he turned to pace back toward them, and he made sure he didn't show even the slightest hint of giving there. It seemed to rattle Cuddy, since she had so rarely ever known Wilson to be so quietly furious. Usually, it was House's temper people had to deal with. Lately, though, Wilson had been coming into his own. It felt pretty damn good not to let people take him for the sweet little agreeable doormat for once, even if he was standing up to her for House's benefit rather than his own.

"Um." Cuddy shook herself and broke eye contact, and Wilson returned to his designated space on the floor next to House. Apparently, she had decided not to push item number one on her agenda, because she skipped ahead to her next condition and faced House again. "I mentioned that you'll be an employee of the college, not of the hospital. It's a professorship, House. You won't be running Diagnostics anymore; you'll be teaching classes on nephrology and infectious disease."

That got an instant rise out of House. He bristled, shot Wilson an indignant look, and then snapped, "You expect me to _teach_ all day? Are you out of your mind?"

"You're good at it," Cuddy replied defensively. "I remember that class you covered on diagnostics. You had them enthralled. People who weren't even taking that class showed up to sit in, House - doctors as well as students. And I know you like listening to yourself talk, especially about medicine."

House balked. "No way."

Cuddy simply ignored him and plowed ahead with her argument. "Plus, it will keep you under the radar for a while. Once the police investigation concludes, we can talk about you getting your old job back, but as of right now, you are no longer a department head."

"I am _not_ teaching classes," House argued. "I'll go insane, stuck in an auditorium with two hundred moronic med students who can't tell Fahr Syndrome from Parkinson's. No."

"House, it's this or nothing. You'll keep your seniority and your benefits package – including your pension – and after a six month trial period, you can petition to have your tenure reinstated. But this is the only job on this campus that I will offer you. If you don't want it, you can walk." Cuddy crossed her arms and Wilson recognized the inception of a battle of a wills.

House was old hat at this, but something about Cuddy's poise must have set him off because he met her gaze for only ten seconds or so before he sucked up his pride and flared his nostrils in concession. It shouldn't have been that easy to win his agreement, not to a teaching position, but Wilson kept his peace. Any job was better than nothing for a man like House, who would start climbing the walls of his apartment inside of a week if he didn't even have minutia to occupy his mind.

"Good." Cuddy deflated a little and eyed House in guarded relief. She recognized the discrepancy in his behavior too, and then she leaned forward against her desk to scrutinize him better. "Are you okay? You look pasty."

House smirked, but it was a mean look for once. "Couldn't be better. What's your next mandate?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes but didn't bother to correct him on the difference between mandates and conditions. Honestly, Wilson didn't see that there _was _much of a difference in this case. "Third," Cuddy announced. "You will apologize, in person, to Doctor Fletcher for whatever you said to him that pissed him off so much he filed a harassment complaint."

Wilson perked up at that before House got a chance to make a similar interjection. "Whoa-whoa-whoa; hang on. _Fletcher_ filed a harassment complaint? Against House?"

Cuddy nodded and expelled a long, weary breath. "Yeah. A serious one. He brought it all the way to the board, which agreed that despite the gravity of the issue, a personal apology will do. Fletcher even agreed to drop the complaint afterwards."

Neither House nor Wilson said anything at first, and then House wrinkled his nose in disbelief. "That homophobe harassed _me_. I'm not apologizing to him."

Cuddy sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "House, look. You cornered him in a deserted corridor – "

"No I didn't!"

" – and proceeded to taunt him about your sexual preferences – "

House looked to Wilson in abject confusion, clearly appalled at Cuddy's summation.

" – which I admit is a little odd even for you, but after the incident over the weekend at the pub, which he noted in his complaint, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." Cuddy looked up with a hint of disappointment for whatever it was she thought House had done or said. "House, you can't play these games with people. You've been lucky up until now; people take your attitude in stride because they know you're just being an ass. But this is too far. You have to apologize to him."

House merely blinked at her, holding himself so still that Cuddy started to shift her feet and glance at Wilson for a cue on what to do next. Wilson thought back to the conversation at the deserted nurses' station when he had tried to get House to tell him what Fletcher had been saying to him to leave him so upset.

"Lisa." Wilson stepped forward to draw Cuddy's attention to himself, and also to give House a moment to fidget behind him without Cuddy ogling him. "According to House's team, Fletcher's been taunting House, not the other way around. And I don't know what Fletcher told you about the pub, but I can get four people in here right now to tell you what really happened. He's got a thing against House."

"That's probably true," Cuddy replied. "And I'm sure you can get all sorts of people in here from the pub that night, but House didn't file a formal harassment complaint; Fletcher did. It doesn't even matter what happened in the pub because it happened during non-work hours, at an informal function in a public place. What matters to me is what happened here, in my hospital. And right now, all I have is Fletcher's incident report."

House roused himself and cleared his throat. "Fine. Then give me the paperwork so I can file my own complaint." A sniffle followed and Wilson glanced back long enough to catch House's eye and verify that it was only the withdrawal making his sinuses drain.

"House, it's too late. You – "

"You can't legally deny me the right to file a complaint for harassment."

Cuddy bobbed her head. "And I'm not. You can fill out whatever paperwork you want, but it's not going to change anything. If you want to work here, you have to apologize to him."

"No! Lisa, I didn't do anything. _He's_ the one who cornered me. He got on the elevator with me and hit the stop button. You're lucky I didn't hit him, and let me assure you, it would have been justified."

"That may be true, but in the end, _you_ didn't file a complaint, House. _He_ did, and it's on file."

"What the hell sort of difference does that make? Just because he whines louder than I do – "

"The difference is that the law requires me to immediately deal with complaints of this nature, to the satisfaction of the person who filed it. Who in this case is Fletcher. Now, we can draw this whole production out until half the hospital's involved and we're all throwing lawyers each other, but all he wants is a stupid apology." Cuddy threw up her hands in exasperation. "I'm not saying it's fair. I'm not even saying it's okay, but it is my job to resolve his issue with you. Just apologize. Stick your tongue in your cheek, smile, pretend you're cowed – whatever it takes to make it go away. It's in your best interests, House. If you challenge this, yes, you'd probably manage to win, or at least annoy and humiliate Fletcher until he gives up. But in the mean time, the board could decide you're not worth the aggravation and ax this deal altogether. They already think you're little more than a trouble maker, and with the Lyamone business and your name all over the press, I only barely managed to get them to agree to let you teach as it is. You are stuck, House. Deal with it. Apologizing to him is the easiest way out."

House seethed visibly, but Wilson admired how hard he worked to keep from completely losing his temper even if Wilson himself was planning to key Fletcher's car on their way home. House's molars probably ground together as he considered Cuddy's words. Then he tipped his head to one side, cocking his hip against his cane, and evenly intoned, "Give me the paperwork."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "You've got to realize how this makes you look. It's retaliatory – "

"Damn right it is. Give me the fucking paperwork, Cuddy."

"Why didn't you just file the complaint when all of this first happened?"

"Oh, like you'd believe me now any more than you would have about Tritter. Give." He wagged in hand at her, compelling her by House-brand determination alone to produce the forms.

"Wait." Wilson narrowed his eyes and fixed an appraising stare upon House, planting his hands on his hips without conscious thought. "What do you mean, believe you about Tritter? Did he do something to you first?"

House turned a baffled look on Wilson, and then abruptly seemed to realize what he'd said. That shuttered look slammed across his face, and all he consented to growl in response was, "Nobody likes a tattletale."

Cuddy scoffed, oblivious to the side-tracked tension between the two men. "Oh, please. Nobody likes you whether you go running to mommy or not. You may as well just be a tattletale."

Wilson's breath caught, and then he shifted his eyes to House, who stood rigid beside him. Just in time, he grabbed House's arm to keep him from moving forward, but House still demanded, "Nobody, huh? What about you, then? Does that go for you too?"

"Good grief, House. This isn't about _us_." She flicked her hand back and forth between them. "This is about you and Fletcher, and the _sexual harassment _complaint he filed against you."

"The only sexual harassment I perpetrated on that sorry sack of shit was daring to let Wilson out us in a damn pub. He's just offended by the idea that I corrupted a perfectly decent, _straight_ oncologist and tricked him into becoming a raging fag. According to him, the fact that I like to take it up the ass is the root of everything that makes me a relentless, evil bastard. Spreading the gay is worse than tossing puppies onto the expressway. Now answer the damn question! Were you _ever_ my friend, or was I just another meal ticket for your precious hospital? A shiny name for you to toss out at your donor mixers?"

Cuddy realized too late what had just happened – how House had taken her flippant retort – and to her credit, she paled. But she didn't budge. "I can't believe you actually have to ask me that. After everything I've done for you since I hired you, the concessions I've made, the crap I let you get away with, keeping you on when no one else in the damn country would touch you – after I _fabricated evidence_ to keep you out of prison while you scammed a rehab clinic – talked the medical school into spending a quarter of a million dollars to buy the rights to your damn book – you're actually asking me if I'm your friend?"

House studied her for a moment, quietly seething. "So I guess that's a no, then. Glad we got that cleared up."

"What? House." Cuddy stepped out from behind her desk, perhaps to set them on even ground instead of continuing the conversation as if this were just a matter of business.

"You can't even say it!" House bellowed. Wilson tightened his grip on House's arm more because he could feel the muscles shivering under the weight he entrusted to the cane, than because he thought House might lunge for Cuddy. "You can't even say yes, Cuddy. It's one damn word! Yes, House, you're my friend. See? I'm a dick, and even I can say it!"

Cuddy gaped, speechless. To be honest, Wilson had no idea what to say either. House had yelled at both of them in the past, had said far worse things than this, and yet… In a way, _this_ confrontation had never come about before. Finally House's lip curled in disgust, prompting Cuddy to rush to say, "House, of course I'm your – "

"Fuck you, Cuddy." House was already turning away, shaking Wilson's hand off in the process. "Like it means anything when I have to badger it out of you."

"House." Wilson tried to catch at his arm again, but House nearly upset his balance, twisting his shoulder to avoid him. At the murderous glare that House directed at him, Wilson backed off and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. House was headed for the door once again, though; he didn't see it, so Wilson begged, "Just wait a minute, House. Please."

"No." House spun back around, and then drew back when he noticed Cuddy standing beside Wilson instead of safely hiding behind her desk. His discomfiture didn't last long, though, and he jabbed a finger in Cuddy's direction. "I quit. Padding your donor queue isn't worth inflicting my deplorable presence on the poor upstanding employees of this hospital. Wouldn't want you to have to deal with more complaints about me. Covering my ass takes up precious time, after all." He started to storm out again, and then whirled back into the room as he thought of something more. "And there is no way in hell I'm letting you get a hold of my book. I'll find a way to block publication if I have to sell my piano to pay the legal fees. I'm not letting you profit off of me anymore."

Cuddy obviously tried to maintain her patience, but with House railing like this, not even Wilson would have held out long. "House, don't be an idiot. If PPTH buys the rights to the book, then _you_ profit off of it too. Is it really worth sabotaging yourself just to get back at me?"

"Yeah," House barked. A maniac edge tinted his words along with the ugly smile he affected. "It is totally worth it."

At the end of her rope, Cuddy shouted, "Don't you get it, you ass? Whether we're friends anymore or not, I'm trying to help you! I _created_ a job opening for you, I made sure you wouldn't lose your tenure or your benefits, your pension – "

"I'm not taking your stupid pity job!" House returned, just as worked up now as she. "You shouldn't be taking away the one I've already got, but you're sort of a bitch that way. I can get that you're trying to appease the board, and I'd be an idiot if I didn't realize that one of these days, I'd use up all my cripple points, but I'm not going to sit here and pretend that accepting your charity makes it all better! I am _not_ a fucking professor. I'll find a job somewhere else, as a _doctor_."

Cuddy shook her head, one hand going to muss her hair on one side of her head while the other drifted to her hip in a defeated pose. "You can't, House. No one will hire you."

"Oh, I can't," House mocked, one hand on the door handle and his torso twisted so that he could sneer at her. "Even I know how to play nice, Cuddles."

"No, I mean you _can't_," Cuddy replied tightly. Then she sighed and looked away. "House, you can't practice anymore." She looked up at him from under the hair that fallen to curl over her brow, genuinely apologetic, and softly added, "No one will hire a doctor who can't practice."

The room felt like a bell jar all of a sudden, and Wilson could pretty much see the same feeling wash over House's face as he froze in front of the door, indignation and a paler emotion warring for supremacy in the set of his shoulders.

Too much time passed in silence, and Cuddy finally broke it by turning away and returning to her desk. She shuffled some papers aside and extracted an envelope with the flap torn off, its contents already perused and then folded back inside. She held it out toward House, wordlessly inviting him back into the room. Wilson stayed where he was, his hands in his pockets for lack of a better place to occupy them, and stared at House.

After what felt like a full minute, House peeled his clammy fingers from the door handle – the withdrawal was getting worse, Wilson noted absently – and hobbled back to Cuddy's desk. He snatched the envelope from her with a mistrustful, sidelong glance and then retreated a few steps to study the address on the outside. Wilson thought he could detect a queasiness to House's countenance that hadn't been there before, something unrelated to what was going on in his Vicodin-starved body.

Unnecessarily, Cuddy reported, "They revoked your license, House. You can appeal the decision to the state medical board, but for now…" She shook her head, and simply breathed, "I'm sorry. Foreman can still consult you if he wants to – and he's already said that he will. No matter what else happens, you will always be the best at what you do, House. But your treatment and access privileges have been terminated. You can't stay on here in the hospital, and no one else will hire you now, not in a medical capacity. The teaching position…you'll still be making a doctor's salary, at least. That's better than what anyone else can do for you now."

House's eyelids fell in a languid blink. When he opened them again, they made it only halfway up, and Wilson took a quiet step closer to him. "House?"

An mirthless smile creased House's face and he chuckled, though it was the most unnerving sound that Wilson had ever heard him make. "Baraku." He snorted, but it sounded all wrong, the breath that drove it too erratic. "I did it, Wilson." When he looked up and met Wilson's eyes, something tiny and precious inside of Wilson withered at the bitter triumph he saw there. "I'm untouchable."

Wilson's eyes widened a fraction. He knew that Cuddy couldn't understand the significance of that, but Wilson remembered vividly the conversation with Vegetative State Guy in Atlantic City. At the time, he had seriously thought that House was making it up.

House smiled more easily at the shock on Wilson's face, but it was still a sick smile, too languid, too outwardly natural to be any more real than the painted grins of mannequins. House's eyes dropped to run over the surface of the envelope as if he were caressing the address lines with his gaze. "Dad said I'd never make it. Too willful." A sudden thought crossed House's face, mirrored in the way he straightened and turned to look at Wilson with an urgent light to his eyes. "I did it, Wilson; he didn't think I could do it, but I did." House broke eye contact and peered back down at the envelope with a pensive frown. Finally, he told himself, "He'd be proud of me now." But he couldn't make himself sound like he believed it.

Wilson tried not to let his stomach inch up his esophagus, but he couldn't help it, not while House just stood there mumbling to himself as if Wilson and Cuddy weren't even there anymore.

Cuddy looked at Wilson, her face a study in disconcertion. With barely any air to carry the words, Cuddy asked, "Is he alright?"

A desk-length away from them, House fingered the corners of the envelope where the edges had been worn soft by transport through the mail system. Without taking his eyes from House, Wilson mutely shook his head. "Call Olivia Turner. And Foreman. The meds he's on…" He couldn't make himself finish the explanation about the partial seizures and the side effects of the cocktail of drugs he was on mixed with the burgeoning onset of acute withdrawal symptoms. Wilson's voice just died out, his throat tightening as he stuttered himself into motion and moved to pry the envelope out of House's cold hand. House didn't put up a fight and Wilson cast the envelope aside without a second glance.

"Hey, Wilson?" House sounded so normal, so like his old casual self that tiny warning bells went off in Wilson's head.

"Yeah?" Wilson reached up to cup House's face, his fingers weaving through the hair behind House's ears, thumbs brushing stubble.

"You remember when I said I had a plan for it? An escape plan?" A solitary bead of saline glittered in the corner of House's eye as he spoke. Somehow, that one tear managed to seem even more detached and aloof than the rest of him. "Remember?"

Wilson swallowed hard, then managed to choke, "Yeah, House. I remember. Catharsis." He tried desperately to catch House's eye, to plead with him via that not to take this where it seemed it was headed.

House nodded, his eyes flickering around the edges of Wilson's face with looking properly at him. "I threw mine out when you said you didn't."

"You…" Wilson felt his throat contract over the breath he tried to suck in, his head bowing of its own accord. He found himself staring at a scrollwork skull emblazoned in faded gold across House's chest, flecks of dim color on a black field of cotton. Wilson didn't want to know what House's face looked like right now, if there were more tears in his eyes or worse yet, none at all. So he kept his gaze riveted to the skull and nodded far too vigorously. "Okay." And then he had to swallow several more times to wrench his composure back in spite of the blade lodged in his throat.

Inexplicably, the whole surreal moment reminded Wilson of a certain Christmas Eve, and the conversation last night when House had admitted that the overdose hadn't been an accident. House had been cornered then too, detoxing and under police investigation on account of his Vicodin use, his career about to come crashing down around his ears with no way out, save the one that came in bottles.

Once he was sure he could speak without shattering at the strain of using his own voice, Wilson nodded again, more restrained this time, and whispered, "I won't let you this time."

House nodded as if relinquishing that to Wilson's care and turned his head toward the windows behind Cuddy's desk, pressing his cheek into Wilson's palm in the process. Maybe that had been the whole point in moving; Wilson left that hand where it was, his thumb now brushing the side of House's nose, and grasped House's cane hand with the other. He could feel the force with which House gripped the wooden handle, a fine shiver of knuckles under the pads of his fingers, and he gently guided House back until he collapsed into one of Cuddy's visitor chairs.

Wilson's fingers lingered on House's scratchy cheek as he withdrew, and then he herded Cuddy away to the other side of the office to talk to her. Before he could even begin to form a coherent explanation, Cuddy demanded in hushed tones, "What the hell did all of that mean?"

Whatever tenuous façade Wilson had constructed to hide behind cracked a little bit and he held up a hand to stop her from saying anything more for a moment while he covered his mouth and fought not to hyperventilate. After a few measured breaths, Wilson uncovered his mouth to gesture helplessly, and then merely blurted in a barely audible voice, "He needs to be put on suicide watch."

Cuddy actually stopped breathing; Wilson could tell by her utter stillness and the color that crept onto her cheeks even as the rest of her face blanched. Then she recovered herself with far more grace than Wilson could boast right now, her eyes trained over his shoulder to where House presumably sat unmoving in front of her desk. With an unsettled bob of her head, she just replied, "I'll take care of it."

It was all Wilson could do not to run from the room right then and let her.

--tbc


	40. Chapter 40

Hi, all! Please don't shoot me for the long delay. Your encouragements [and death threats] have helped me keep going through this section, which for some reason, I had a really hard time writing and keeping straight in my head. [*snerk* Yeah, like anything about this fic is _straight_.] Um, anywho... Here is the next chapter, and I'm really sorry it took so long, and I hope you all enjoy it.

**Previous chapter summary:** House informed Wilson that he intends to stop taking Vicodin. In fact, he had already stopped taking it the day before and the withdrawal was starting by the time he told Wilson. A little bit later, Wilson more or less badgered House into revealing a snippet of what happened when he was twelve. In the process, House punched him. Then they went to breakfast, and then to the hospital where Cuddy informed House that he had not only been fired, but that his license had been revoked. It sort of shocked him more than anyone expected.

* * *

Olivia stopped Wilson's pacing by stepping in front of him and grabbing him by the shoulders. "James, it was a misunderstanding."

"No," Wilson argued on auto-pilot. Inside, he was pretty much a double-blended, hot mocha mess, and Olivia had insisted about four times so far that Wilson had just misunderstood. He was awfully close to being insulted over her estimation of his ability to understand his own damn friend; the delay in blowing up probably had something to do with the fact that House wasn't actually within Wilson's field of view, and he was worried sick even though he knew someone was sitting with House, that he wasn't alone in the exam room at the end of this little-used corridor in the farthest reaches of the emergency department. "No, he said – "

"All he said was that he no longer has the means to – "

"I know what he said!" Wilson rounded on her and she backed up with a hand held out to hush him. If anything, that calming gesture and patronization inherent in it merely served to incense Wilson further. "You don't know him! _I_ do! _I_ know what he meant!" They were nowhere near the clinic or nosy staff members who may have meant well between their bouts of judgmental, buttinski gossiping. Otherwise, Wilson would have planted himself in a chair and just stopped moving, lest he draw attention to anything at all. In this near-vacant hallway outside an exam room that never saw use nowadays, it was safe for him to let a few cracks show, right?

Wilson realized that he had been staring at Olivia for a solid minute, manic eyes and everything, awaiting some sort of denial from her that Wilson knew House as well as he thought he did. The intensity of the moment crashed down on Wilson and he skittered back from her before he whirled off grab his own elbows and stared unseeing out the rain-streaked window. No use intimidating his own therapist.

Olivia inhaled a long breath to reinforce her forced patience. "He's detoxing, James. It's natural for even the most well-adjusted, accidental drug addict to suffer a fit of depression while experiencing withdrawal – it's the body's way of registering a sudden drop in endorphins. For House, who has pretty much been depressed his entire life, a little ideation in response to the shock of realizing that his old life is gone… I'll just say that this is not a surprise. I don't believe he's actually, actively suicidal; if he were, I doubt he would have told you. What he said… It was a shock, James – a gut reaction. The news about his license fell on top of everything else that he's been dealing with for almost two months straight, without a proper support system – "

Wilson bristled. "I've been right here – "

"No," Olivia countered gently. "You haven't."

Wilson pressed his lips together and told himself that his nose was stuffing on account of the weather. It was wet and miserable outside, and the chill of his own body pointed to a touch of the common cold.

"I see you already realize that," Olivia observed, but her voice carried and unusual – for her – note of sympathy.

Wilson looked down at his shoes as he listened to her continue speaking, but he wasn't paying any more attention than he had to. After she had blathered on for a few sentences, none of which he processed beyond the understanding that she spoke English, Wilson murmured, "I'm not sure I can go through this with him." He meant the depression more than the detox, though both left him equally terrified. He could only barely handle his own depression.

Olivia stopped, and for a moment, Wilson thought she had left, perhaps in disgust at his transparent desire to abandon his best friend now. The rain pattering against the window obscured the silence, and it was only Olivia's reflection in the glass that alerted him to her sudden proximity. Her hand slipped over his shoulder and Wilson fought the impulse to step aside, out from under it.

"I need him…" Wilson whispered, half to himself; Olivia's being there to overhear was incidental. "I need what he was before this, before we were _this_." Wilson made a two-fingered gesture without letting go of his elbow, meant to sum up their physical relationship, the obscene add-on to a friendship that had once been nearly perfect in its simple ability to endure despite the blatant dysfunction and how often they hurt each other by it. "It's all crap now, Olivia. Ever since this turned into a relationship, it's like we're balancing on a knife edge. We destroyed the whole thing when we started sleeping together. I can't…untangle…" He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, then exclaimed, "We weren't made for this shit. It's too intense. There's no buffer anymore, and I can't _live_ this."

"What you're feeling right now is normal," Olivia explained. "You're overwhelmed – both of you – by the aftereffects of a very traumatic event, one that neither of you has faced the repercussions of. You're both confused and hurting, and you'll continue to feel that way until you both address whatever it is that the shooting stirred up for you. And as if that weren't enough to deal with, you have ongoing legal issues, an unresolved criminal investigation, House's medical issues… James, if you _weren't_ freaking out right now, I'd be concerned for your sanity. As it is, I only see two deeply emotional men who have repressed things for so long that they have no idea how to handle themselves when they can't hide anymore. And I'm not talking about latent homosexual tendencies. I'm talking about plain old feelings – reactions to real life. Dying patients, absentee parents, loss of friends and family, disillusionment with your careers, a lack of a sense of fairness, perhaps feelings of futility…your depression and House's pain… You have literally been smacked upside the head with real life, and it sucks. There's no structure to it, no rhyme or reason for a lot of it, no meaning…"

Wilson snorted, or tried to; no levity made it out. "Meaning. House once tried to find meaning to his life by taking on a patient who didn't need anything except palliative care – a vegetable. And then he ended up curing the guy of undiagnosed Addison's on a stupid whim, with no evidence whatsoever, and the guy woke up like Lazarus. Nobody except House would have looked twice at that guy. I look at that, and I see something like fate. House said once that he's the end of the line for a patient – they only come to him after everyone else fails. He's like…like a fulcrum."

Olivia's eyebrows drew together. "What, like an instrument of god? Isn't that a little melodramatic?"

"Well, yeah, but…" Wilson huffed. "House has epiphanies for no good reason. He looks at pencil shavings and sees Buerger's disease. Tell me that's not divine intervention."

Tentatively, Olivia agreed, "It could be, from a certain mindset."

Wilson nodded, his hands held out to cup the air in front of him, as if holding onto that notion. "He finds _meaning_ in every case he handles, whether he saves the patient or not, and he can't even recognize it. That Addison's guy should still be a vegetable – if he had gone to any other hospital, if House had been in just a little bit of a snit, or less cheerful about running eight miles, or less sweaty, he never would have gotten his hands on that patient's file. He doesn't even visit his own patients most of the time, and yet he was in that man's room at just the right time to hear him grunt. Everyone else saw a compressed diaphragm and an involuntary sound; House saw a long-shot miracle in a guy who was basically pronounced brain-dead minus one degree. I think about that, and I'm…in awe. There is no way that man found his way to the only doctor who could see far enough to cure him by coincidence. But _House_ looks at that and sees nothing. He sees just…I don't know. Pointlessness." Wilson shook his head with a self-depreciative snort, manic in his quest to find the irony funny enough to laugh at. "And you know, I think he's right. There is no meaning, Olivia. There are chance encounters and coincidences, but no meaning."

Olivia pressed her tongue into her cheek and let her hand slip from his shoulder so that she could turn to peer out the window too. "Is this the same patient you lied to him about in a bid to teach him humility?"

Wilson blinked and glanced at her reflection before shifting his feet to relieve the discomfort of standing in place for too long.

"I'm sure that finding out that his two friends tricked him in what he considered a cruel manner detracted from any meaning he may have otherwise taken from the incident. You called him Icarus."

"How did you know about that?"

"House doesn't realize how much he lets slip when he's busy ranting, especially over the phone with no one looking at him or interrupting. And he _did_ find a meaning in that, just not the one either of you had hoped he would find."

Wilson fought the urge to snarl at his own reflection. "Just say it. I reinforced his maxim: everybody lies, and trust is for idiots."

"More like trust is a weakness, and it hurts to look for anything beyond the surface. The price of finding meaning isn't worth it. But that's an old hurt, James – for both of you. House already carried it with him when the Addison's patient came through." Olivia slid her feet around and leaned her back against the window, arms crossed over her chest, facing Wilson. Wilson, for his part, refused to acknowledge her. "You both like to torture yourselves with old scars, because at least those are familiar pains. It's an evasion tactic." She gave a nonchalant shrug, breaking eye contact. "A good one, at that; it's served you both so well."

Wilson glared past his reflection and darkly muttered, "I'm not evading anything."

"Cow pies. Start dealing with the present, James; the issues you have _now _are the ones most likely to ruin you both – not the laundry list of grievances you've been accumulating against each other for fifteen years. Some things really are best left forgotten for now. What happened today – what's _been_ happening since the shooting – that's the issue now – that's what's tearing you both into pieces. And it's nothing to feel guilty about. You haven't been ignoring him or letting him fall apart. You didn't miss any warning signs; he knows you, he knows what you're likely to notice, and what he let you see weren't things that you would ever recognize as tells. There was nothing you could have done to prevent this. You're both like freight trains headed for the sheer face of a mountain; eventually, you're both going to crash. Spectacularly, I might add."

Wilson scoffed, aware of the lump forming near his larynx.

Olivia went on as if he had asked her to explain, which sort of annoyed him; he didn't really care for her psycho-babble right now, not while House sat in a hospital bed down the hall, half-broken. "You both witnessed something tragic, and House was better equipped to deal with it at first. He's a first responder. When the ambulance comes in, he's all action, and the shakes don't hit until after the dust settles. You're the opposite – you start feeling the second the gurney rolls through the door. It's why you're a good oncologist but crappy in a pinch."

"Thanks," Wilson snapped. "I feel better now."

"I'm not insulting you," Olivia placated. "Just offering an observation. This shooting threw you off. You didn't react at all, you didn't feel, and that's not like you. The second it went down, you went numb, and House has been shielding you ever since. He knows you're in a bad spot, and unfortunately, it's taken its toll on him. Plus, he said you had some sort of argument last night, and a worse one this morning. He mentioned his parents, said he even punched you." Her finger traced the mark on his jaw without actually touching it, but Wilson flinched anyway and she dropped her hand. "From his refusal to even tell me the subject you fought over, I'm guessing it was ugly. I'm guessing he told you about the summer he locked himself in his room. James, what happened in Doctor Cuddy's office is all just fall out. House is fine. He's shaken, sick, and hurting right now, but the whole time I was in there with him, all he kept asking was whether or not _you_ were okay, and whether or not you had someone with you. He's terrified that you would take what he said literally – like _this_ – instead of as…" She shook her head, groping for words. "I don't know, as an illustration of how he was feeling. You already know he has trouble articulating his emotions. Add to that the row this morning, and the shock in Cuddy's office, and he simply didn't have the wherewithal to come up with a better way of saying it. James, look at me." She snapped her fingers in front of his nose, and Wilson only glanced at her for the sake of glaring. "House is _not_ thinking of killing himself. I promise you, he wouldn't dare."

Without thinking, Wilson replied, "You're an idiot. How can you promise – "

"Because in his mind, your life is more important to him than his own." Olivia straightened against the window, no longer letting it support her weight, her voice sharpening with her posture. "And so is your death. He told me what you said to him, about the morphine and what you would do if he died. James, he's terrified of the possibility of leaving you to kill yourself. You don't seem to understand what hearing that did to him. You basically told him point blank that he is more important than you are."

"But he doesn't even believe that."

"No. He believes that _you_ believe that, and that if he ever died, even by accident, he would in effect be murdering you." Olivia gave him a bare moment to digest that, to picture it in some way in his mind, and then she said, "James, you are his one most important person. You. And that gave him something he never had before. I don't know exactly what it is, and I'm sure he couldn't even begin to explain it himself, but that means something to him. He told me just now that he decided to stop taking the Vicodin because he wants to know what it would feel like to be the person you seem to already think he is. Do you understand the enormity of something like that, of how much it matters what you think of him?"

Wilson started and then turned to stare at her. He heard dream-John's voice taunting him beneath an acrylic, finger-painted sky. _Because it matters what you think of him_. "I told him he couldn't – "

" – do the detox for your sake. Yes, I know. And he's not. Wanting to be your idealized version of himself, that's not for you. It's for him. He can be somebody as long as he's being it for you, somebody other than the great Doctor House. Up until this morning, he thought that maybe it would be enough – that as long as you needed _just_ him, it would be okay."

Wilson tried to look out the window, and then off to the left so that he didn't have to see the recrimination that he could hear in Olivia's voice. "But being a doctor is…there _is _no 'just' him."

Olivia hesitated a moment, then said, "You actually think that, don't you." She sounded disappointed, as if she'd expected more of him.

Wilson didn't need her to tell him how unreasonable he was being. Defensive, he declared, "He defines himself the same way."

"So you think less of him now that he's lost his license to practice?"

"No!" Wilson glanced up, unable to explain why hearing her accuse him of that actually hurt. In a softer tone, Wilson added, "I don't think that being a doctor is all he's good for. It's just…that's what he _is_. He couldn't stop being Doctor House if he tried; he loves it too much."

Olivia sagged back against the window again and re-crossed her arms. "Ah." A few seconds passed in relative silence, and then she asked, "Do you want to know what else he told me just now?"

"No," Wilson replied thickly. "Not really."

Olivia didn't oblige him. "He's sitting in there right now convinced that he was wrong to think that he could ever be anything else. When people seek him out, they're only looking for the Great Doctor. The man never actually mattered."

"He's depressed because of the withdrawal. It's magnifying – "

"Yes, it is," Olivia interrupted. "That doesn't make him wrong to think it, seeing as how you're out here feeling sorry for yourself when he needs you in there." She jabbed a finger past his shoulder, pointing at the exam room down the hall. "He said the only reason you won't come in is because he's pathetic when he's just plain Greg the junkie."

Wilson winced.

"And you know what? He doesn't even blame you for thinking that; he _is _pathetic like this, and he knows it. That doesn't make him repulsive."

"I helped make him a junkie," Wilson whispered. "I did this to him."

Olivia's arm drifted back to her side. "_That's_ what this is? Guilt?" She studied him with far more sympathy than she had shown so far. "James, you are not responsible for putting him at the edge of a breakdown, or for getting him fired, or for bankrupting him. But if you stand out here feeling sorry for yourself for much longer, then you _will_ be responsible for that last second when he finally just gives up. If he can't matter to you, then he can't matter at all. That's what he thinks, James – no one else has ever looked at him the way you do. Maybe you don't want the man without the doctor, but at least you _see _the man."

"It's not that," Wilson croaked.

Olivia acknowledged the words with a nod, but pursed her lips, her eyes sad. She didn't need to drive the point any further home; she had already impaled him on it. "He's been there for you, more than you seem to realize, for a lot longer than you've been fucking him."

Wilson cringed at the bluntness, but didn't look at her.

"This isn't supposed to easy," Olivia told him. "It's _supposed _to tear you apart inside; that's how you know it matters." Olivia raised an imploring hand, palm up, and extended it toward the door far away down the hallway where House sat feeling like shit in more ways than one. "You want meaning? You've already got it, James. Stand back and look at the damn forest for once in your life. It isn't always about you and your guilt, or what you may or may not have done to contribute to the crap around you. You are _not_ god. House got himself into this mess – he knows that. The fact that you went with him doesn't change anything, but you owe it to him to follow him back out."

Wilson glanced up, shaking his head, but he still answered, "I know."

Olivia regarded him sadly. "No, I don't think you do. But you will." She nodded at the hallway behind him. "You don't have to say or do the right thing – there is no right thing. Just go to him."

* * *

Wilson didn't go to House's room right away; he avoided it and shuffled about the hallways with no real goal in mind until he passed a vending machine. His gaze snagged on the last pack of Skittles and he stopped to stare at it, recalling the rest area on the interstate and the weight of House's arm draped over his shoulders in a mockery of affection crafted to disguise just how genuine the gesture was. Wilson didn't realize he had raised his arm until he felt the glass squeak under his fingers. He started, shook himself and then took out his wallet, sifting through receipts to find a dollar bill. He found one, but rather than slip it free, he stared past it at the rectangle of paper bearing House's prescription cure for melancholia. He had been taking it out several times a day to look at it because it still made him smile in a way that ached deep down inside. It was a tangible bit of proof that House cared, as if Wilson needed yet another one. A reminder.

After a moment spent gazing into his billfold, Wilson shut it and returned it to his pocket without removing the dollar bill. He didn't feel like Skittles right now.

A few more minutes of wandering found him outside the gift shop, watching a clerk clean up in preparation to close for the evening. Wilson glanced in surprise at the windows across the lobby to find dusk falling over the landscaping outside the main entrance. Inside the gift shop, the clerk walked down an aisle to straighten out bins of stuffed animals that the day's customers had mixed into the wrong places. A smile filtered over his face when he saw her refilling a bin of those little Wilson-ish bears, like the one he bought for the donor walk-through months ago. Then he noticed the bears on the bottom shelf and grinned outright. House may be obligated to mock him for it, but the fodder was a gift in and of itself.

By the time Wilson finally ambled back to the deserted corridor, there were other people in House's room. Wilson blinked when he recognized Officer Morrow, a foreign entity in her street clothes. Cuddy stood beside her with her arms crossed, looking down at her feet. They were carrying on a conversation with House, but Wilson didn't bother eavesdropping at first; he studied House instead: the bow of his back facing the door, legs dangling off the edge of the exam table in two tense, unmoving lines...seeing House _not_ fidgeting or tapping or twiddling something always threw Wilson off. House had his button down wadded in one hand and the back of his t-shirt was spotted with perspiration.

Wilson couldn't see his face, but he heard the sniffles interspersing the low, gravelly tones of his voice as he responded to whatever Officer Morrow had just said. He sounded the way he did when his springtime allergies acted up, and if it weren't for the long fingers clamped over his thigh or the slight rocking that House kept arresting every few seconds, Wilson would have been tempted to think that nothing were wrong at all. As he watched, House balled his free hand up against his stomach, button down and all, and rounded his back a little more. Wilson squished his plush offering to his chest as he heard Cuddy ask him if he needed the emesis basin.

"No," House rasped. "M'fine."

"You are _not_ fine," Cuddy countered. Her gentle tone irked Wilson; after all the crap she had pulled lately, she had no right, in his mind, to take that maternal attitude with anyone, let alone House.

House gave her a childish look and replied, "Am too."

Exasperated, Cuddy threw up her hands and said, "At least let me get you a Benadryl."

"Yeah," House scoffed. "That'll help." Then he scooted to the edge of the table preparatory to struggling to his feet, probably to pace. Cuddy pushed him back by the shoulders, and House went deathly still. "Get your hands off me."

"House, you're sick. Stay put."

House took a deep breath and Wilson marveled at the calm he instilled in his voice when his every limb seemed ready to explode with angry tension. "You have exactly three seconds to let go of me." He made a point of thumping his cane near her feet, a threatening gesture for him, considering the lack of sarcasm in his tone when he did it.

Uneasy, Cuddy unhanded him and stepped back, then looked away as House gained his feet only to hiss and sit right back down, his knuckles whitening over the head of his cane. In a bid to overlook his difficulty, Cuddy drew herself up into a more professional posture - something to hide behind, Wilson reflected - and told Morrow, "We can do this later."

House shook his head. "No we can't. Hey." He jerked his chin at Officer Morrow, his ragged breathing audible all the way out to the edge of the doorway where Wilson lurked. "Patty Cakes. Keep talking."

Morrow frowned at the corruption of her given name and cast Cuddy a dubious glance. When Cuddy dismissed her concern with a shrug, Morrow turned back to House and asked, "Are you sure?"

House snorted, swallowed hard enough that an idiot off the street could have diagnosed nausea, and then snapped, "Yes, I'm sure. Quit it with the damn pity parade. You didn't come down here to watch a drug trafficking suspect puke all over your shoes. Just talk."

"Um." Morrow glanced at her Sketchers and then sidestepped the fallout zone. "Right." She stepped even further back when House levered himself to his feet a second time and managed to stay there. "First off, you're no longer a suspect. I told you that on the phone."

"Whatever." House limped heavily around the exam table and then paused as if he didn't want to risk letting go of it. "Next topic."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes as she took in his awkward stance. "House, are you sure you're okay?"

House rolled his head back on his shoulders and snapped, "I already told you – "

"You're limping worse than usual," Cuddy broke in sharply. "Undercooked eggs doesn't cause increased leg pain."

Ah, Wilson thought; they still didn't realize what was going on. House must have told them he got food poisoning or that his allergies were acting up…or both. And being House, no one would have thought to question the excuses because he would have delivered them as if they were each a separate insult to the inquirer. That usually shut people down in mid care.

House was busy examining his shoes when he replied too reasonably, "Actually, _Clostridium botulinum_ would cause difficulty in moving the arms and legs, which would account for a stiffer, more clumsy gait."

"Yes," Cuddy hedged, "it would. Too bad your movements aren't stiff or clumsy at the moment."

"You don't know that. All you know is what you've observed with your eyes. You can't actually tell if I'm feeling stiff or – " House broke off abruptly as a pensive expression stole over his face. "Wait a minute while I turn that into a dirty metaphor."

Cuddy let out a silent sigh. "I'll give you a rain check. In the mean time, what I've _observed_ is that you're not putting any weight on your right leg." She paused, then, and her eyes flittered all over House's figure before her jaw nearly dropped. As if she couldn't even fathom it, she breathed, "You're in detox."

House flared his nostrils, his lips pressed tightly together, and shot her a look of pure contempt. "Wow. Took you this long to notice."

"But… _Now_? You could have said something in my office, you know. How long has it been?" Her eyes tracked through his posture, then scanned over the perspiration and the sickly pallor of his face, which merely served to highlight the bright ever-flush to his cheeks. "Two days?"

Grudgingly, House admitted, "A little over thirty six hours."

Cuddy's hands spread out seemingly of their own accord, beseeching. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

House merely blinked at her, unimpressed by her show of disappointment at not being included in the minutia of his life. Not that suddenly giving up Vicodin was a little thing, Wilson added to himself; it was just that Cuddy had sort of lost the right to House's friendly disclosure, assuming that she had ever had it. Hell – sometimes, _Wilson_ didn't even have that right, and no one was closer to House than he was.

When it became clear that House had no intention of explaining his reasoning to her, Cuddy sighed and relocated her hands to her waist. She sounded resigned to the cold shoulder, if put upon by House's reticent attitude, as she asked, "What made you want to quit?"

"I'm thinking of getting into designer drugs instead." House plucked his t-shirt logo. "Vicodin just doesn't go with this shirt."

Cuddy made a face at thin air, and then tried to assure Officer Morrow, "He's kidding."

"No, really," House pressed. His face took on an avid glow that Wilson could only associate with the withdrawal. "I've already tried Special K, and heroin's just like an opiate on steroids, so I'm thinking cocaine. All the cool kids are doing it these days."

Morrow quirked an eyebrow and Cuddy headed off anything she might have said by trying to explain, "Doctor House has a sort of…" She twirled a finger near her ear. "…problem with…" She was obviously groping after words now, and settled on "…situational humor," with near explosive finality.

"Wow," House drawled. "That was impressive. You know – pulling that completely believable explanation out of your ass in like twenty seconds flat."

"Shut up, House."

"I admit, it's a nice ass, though." He craned his back for a better look.

"_House._"

"But surely with all that extra room in there, it could hold more credible – "

"House!"

House affected his innocent little boy, up to no good face, which was sort of ruined by the withdrawal-induced tic in his cheek and the too-fervid gleam in his puffy, bloodshot eyes. "What?" Then his mood shifted like quicksilver and he demanded, "Where the hell is Wilson? That psychobabbler said he'd be in here like an hour ago."

Cuddy made a valiant attempt to suppress her irritation at his earlier remarks. "He's still in the hospital. I've had security tailing him."

Wilson balked and looked around in a fit of paranoia just to find a security guard perched not-so-inconspicuously against the wall at the end of the corridor. Nice to know that they were, in fact, capable of doing their jobs on occasion, at least when no drug-hyped gunmen were trying to get in.

"And don't call her that," Cuddy added sternly. "Doctor Turner is a highly qualified – "

"I don't really care," House broke in. He peered back at Cuddy, beguiling in an evil sort of way, if that were even possible. "You know that, right? All of these attempts to temper my bastardly ways… You could save yourself the effort; I really don't give a shit."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and glared off to the side, freshly annoyed.

A few exchanges passed between House and Morrow after that, their voices too low for Wilson to hear, and then House snapped, "No. I'm not staying here."

Cuddy held a hand up in appeasement. "House, rehab is made for this."

"No."

"It would be safer," Morrow put in. "Having you in the hospital means more eyes watching out for you."

Cuddy added, "I could even arrange for Wilson to stay in the wing with you."

Morrow nodded. "It would certainly make it easier, having you both in the same place."

House shook his head, then appeared to regret it as he wobbled on his feet. It didn't detract from the bite to his tone, though. "What part of 'no' didn't you understand? I am _not_ staying here. I am _not_ going to rehab."

Cuddy sighed. "House – "

"No means no."

"House!" Cuddy hissed. "What is so horrible about rehab?"

"The cable sucks. No nudie channels."

Cuddy ignored that. "If you want a private room, I'll get you a private room. If it's the orderlies, I'll make sure they keep out. Because of the investigation, you'd already be going in under an assumed name. House, this is the best place for you right now, and if something goes wrong medically, you'll already be in a hospital. Don't think I haven't read your chart. I know how bad it is right now, and if you really do intend to go through with detoxing, then you _should_ be in a hospital. House, you are _not_ well right now."

House mumbled something and then immediately looked at the wall.

Cuddy straightened and glanced at Morrow, then furiously demanded, "Who?"

"Doesn't matter," House groused. "He doesn't work here anymore."

Not to be deterred, Cuddy shifted her feet and said, "You mean to tell me that one of _my_ orderlies helped you cheat last time?"

House ruffled himself, and then snapped, "How else do you think I got Vicodin in there?" Mostly under his breath, he added, "God, you're an idiot."

"I can't believe you!" Cuddy exclaimed. "What did you do, bribe him? Blackmail him?"

House snapped his head up, affronted. "Hey, those idiots are supposed to expect that kind of crap in there! It's not my fault you hired some greedy, amoral bastard who didn't have any compunctions about taking my money and scoring me more of the drugs that landed me there in the first place. It's not like you even gave a shit. I was going through hell – one that you and your self-righteousness imposed on me just to force me to bend to your will and make me take a stupid deal from a corrupt cop who _assaulted me first_. Not that it mattered to you – you were too busy securing your hospital asset to even notice what I was going through!"

Taken aback, Cuddy shook her head, her eyes riveted on House, seemingly appalled at the accusations. "That is _not_ true." The emotion in her voice captured even House's attention. "You are my _friend_! Of course it mattered. Maybe you don't believe me, but House, I swear to god – "

"Don't," House snapped lowly. "Don't try to convince me that you cut off my medication out of _friendship_. It was a bargaining tool to you, Cuddy. You didn't even stop to think what sort of agony you were putting me through."

"Yes I did!" Cuddy yelled back. She was obviously upset by now, but she hid it well. "I thought you would give in before it got that bad."

"If that's true, then you haven't been paying attention," House retorted. "Since when has being bullied ever made me give in?"

Cuddy shook her head, her eyes closed, lips pressed tightly together as if to prevent any emotion from escaping her, lest House rip it apart. "I wasn't…I didn't mean for that. House, I was worried – we all were. We thought you were going to prison."

House studied her just long enough to satisfy himself about some point that didn't show on his face, and then he looked down, chewing his cheek. He didn't seemed mollified, but the visible anger had dimmed somewhat.

Morrow divided her gaze between them and then cocked her head to the side. "Did Detective Tritter really assault you?"

Too late, House realized that he had said something incriminating in front of a police officer, whether it could get him in trouble or not, and quickly averted his gaze.

Cuddy latched onto it though, as if House's earlier words hadn't actually gotten through. "Wait – you mentioned something about that in my office too."

House glared at her from the corner of his eye and merely growled, "Drop it."

Morrow turned troubled. "That's a yes, then."

There was no point denying it now, since House had already offered a telling silence to the original question, so he shrugged instead. "Doesn't matter. It's over."

Cuddy swallowed and gave an aborted shake of her head, then straightened. She knew House; he didn't want to talk about it, and nothing anyone could ever say would make him, so she dropped the subject, just as he'd asked. "If you agree to stay here, in the rehab wing, I will personally bring you any medication you need."

His vitriol undimmed by the side argument and Cuddy's abruptly cowed manner, House demanded, "Is there a dictionary in here?" He glanced around for dramatic effect; of course, there wouldn't be a dictionary handy in a little-used exam room. "We need to reacquaint you with the definition of the word 'no.'" He paused for a moment as if considering this conundrum and then mused, "Maybe it sponsored an episode of Sesame Street. I bet Wilson has it on DVD in the kiddie ward." He fixed his gaze on Cuddy again and suggested coldly, "Maybe you should go look for it. Your cute little adopted parasite might need to learn it someday. You know – for when she's older and going through puberty, and getting ogled by middle-aged perverts."

Anyone less accustomed to House's moods probably would have slapped him or stalked out; that was a little over the line even for House, withdrawal pangs or not. Cuddy merely glanced at the ceiling with a long-suffering expression and then gave him a blatant look of pity. House appeared disgusted by that reaction and put his back to her again, his sweaty palm sliding on the exam table with a soft squeak as he leaned on it to shift his feet.

It was Morrow who took up the argument next, her tone brusque and professional, yet gentle in an odd, curt way. "It's not only you we're concerned for, Doctor House. These men made direct threats against Doctor Wilson, not against you. He's probably in more danger than you are right now."

Petulant now, House muttered, "I'm sure the security guards took that into account when Cuddy ordered them to follow him."

Wilson looked down, well aware of the hurt lurking behind the flippant words.

Undeterred, Morrow pressed, "What, exactly, did they threaten to do, Doctor House? You haven't told me yet."

House turned his head far enough to look at something other than Morrow's shoes.

"Shall I guess?"

With no trace of emotion, House said, "Stop it."

"Outright killing isn't really their style." Morrow went on in spite of the flash of hatred that even Wilson could see in House's glare to her. "They started off with a threat of kidnapping; Doctor Cuddy told me that much. What did they intend to do after they had him?"

Even Cuddy grew uncomfortable watching House's breathing pick up as he fought not to lash out at a police officer. In his current state, violence wasn't far beyond him, not to mention the sort of flogging he could deliver with his tongue even on the best of days. Wilson found his restraint admirable; he could only guess that House knew how ugly he would be if he let even an ounce of it go.

Cuddy turned toward Morrow to say, "I think Doctor House sees your point."

Morrow spared her a glance and nothing more, her attention too focused on driving home a point that Wilson knew damn well House already got. "They must know that you two are together in every sense of the word. Do you know what men like that tend to do with men like you?"

Cuddy spoke up again to say, "Officer Morrow, I'm sure your intentions are good, but I can't allow you to bully a patient in my hospital."

House continued to shiver on his feet, one hand still wrapped over the edge of the exam table, which no doubt bit into his palm, judging by his blanched knuckles. The shaking was too pronounced to chalk it solely up to withdrawal, and his manic yet glassy stare, coupled with the darker flushing of his cheeks, attested to deeper emotions than Wilson was used to seeing on him. Withdrawal tended to heighten moods as well as the frequency of mood swings – rage included. Wilson tensed without conscious thought, poised to rush into the room and hold him back if he had to.

Morrow didn't seem to take House's rapidly disintegrating mood into account when she switched tactics and kept on badgering a clearly incensed man. "You know, this wouldn't be an issue if you had just come to us with the photos in the first place. Instead, your boyfriend – "

"He's not my _boyfriend_." At the moment, terminology was probably the only thing that House could object to without flying off the deep end, and he practically spit at her when he said it.

Morrow ignored the comment. "Instead, your boyfriend had to steal them from you and give them to your boss, who is the only person in this whole mess who had sense enough to give them to me."

House seethed for a moment, and then snapped, "So, what – you're saying this is all my fault? Fuck you."

Cuddy arched an eyebrow at him. "House… I know you're upset, and in pain, and scared, but that's no excuse – "

"I'm not _scared_ – I was handling it! If I needed the cavalry to come and save me, I would have called my bookie to borrow some actual horses. You had no right sticking your nose in my business."

"Wilson's the one who stuck my nose in your business," Cuddy pointed out, too outwardly cool in light of House's raving. "He brought me the photos. He knew you were out of your depth."

"Oh, so now it's Wilson's fault. That's cute, Cuddy."

"No," Cuddy snapped back. "It's _your_ fault for being an egomaniacal ass and thinking that you could single handedly take on the whole New Jersey drug trade!"

House peered up at her, murderous and mocking at the same time. "Aw. Am I blushing?" In spite of the customary sarcasm, Wilson could tell that Cuddy's accusation hurt him on some level; it was in the set of his shoulders and the bow of his back, and in the way he looked aside immediately after.

Cuddy glared at him. "I can't tell with the fever-flush and all the sweating. And you could use a shower, by the way."

House actually seemed offended by that, but it shut him up long enough to dig his fist into the damaged muscles of his thigh and then demand, "Find Wilson. I want him here."

Cuddy sighed long and hard, and actually seemed regretful to have to tell him, "I can't make him come. He already knows where you are."

House didn't really react, but his increased breathing and the hard swallow betrayed his distress.

"He'll be here," Cuddy said, her voice earnest now in a banal attempt at reassurance.

All House did was whine, "When?"

Cuddy started to shake her head but arrested the gesture before House could glimpse her helplessness. In an effort to distract him, probably, she turned to Officer Morrow and asked, "Was there anything else?"

Morrow quirked an eyebrow at Cuddy, but otherwise, the police facade never faltered. She faced House and said, "We'd appreciate it if you gave us written permission to examine your bank records to see if we can trace the ransom payment you made, and to monitor your accounts for future suspicious activity."

House rallied his snarky side with a visible effort and responded with a queasy if mean chuckle. "Great. You can watch me spend my last five dollars on Ramen noodles." Then he clutched more tightly at the edge of the table with a harsh exhale.

Morrow reset her feet. "Doctor House, I don't think you appreciate your position at the moment."

"On the contrary, I _love_ Ramen noodles." He affected a wistful tilt to his posture, staring off toward the ceiling. "All that starch, and the chewy, rehydrated, dehydrated vegetables..." He snapped back to the moment. "It's like med school all over again. I can't wait."

Morrow took the sarcasm poorly and crossed her arms. "Doctor House, you paid a quarter of a million ransom to men associated with an underground methamphetamine trade. They aren't going to go away now that they know which buttons to push. Blackmail is a crime of long term escalation; they'll want more. Surely you can see that."

"I'm not an idiot," House mumbled. He finally peeled his fingers off of the table and hobbled forward with only his cane for support. He was too busy minding his feet to notice Wilson standing in the doorway, but Morrow's gaze found him by virtue of House's passing the door. Cuddy's followed a second later.

Apparently, Morrow elected to keep her observations to herself. She looked at House's back as he reached the far wall and pressed a hand to it. "Yeah," Morrow countered. "You kind of are."

House craned his head around under his arm to glare bloody murder at her. "Bite me."

Cuddy raised a hand to placate Officer Morrow. "It's the withdrawal. It makes him irritable."

"Right," Morrow deadpanned. "_That's_ what makes him irritable."

House scoffed and pivoted on his good leg, then straightened abruptly to find Wilson standing right smack in front of him. He blinked, his haggard features drawing down in something like confusion, as if he had given up on expecting Wilson to show and couldn't figure out why he suddenly had. Then he looked down and balked. "You bought me a _teddy bear_?" He raised his head to give Wilson the most comically incredulous look he was capable of. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Not just any bear," Wilson replied in his best infomercial-announcer voice. He hefted the thing up to eye level as he sidled around the door jamb; it was easily as bulky as Cuddy, if not as tall. "It's a - "

"Wilson, I swear to god, if you call it a Jimmy Bear..."

Wilson put on his best, doe-eyed pout. "But look - it even comes with its own endoscopic polyp remover." He twiddled the vague medically-reminiscent stuffed shiny thing in the bear's lab coat pocket. "See? Padded and squishy for your colon's comfort."

House just looked at him.

Wilson shrugged and played innocent. "What? I gave him my backup sweater vest and everything." Indeed, he had struggled in his office to get the stupid maroon thing on the bear, along with a dress shirt that didn't fit its stuffed proportions, and a ridiculously hideous tie that should have been burned back in the seventies. Then he had crammed the cheap factory-stitched teddy bear lab coat back on over it, much to the amusement of the nurse who had walked in on him doing it. Wilson held the bear out and House leaned away in something akin to horror. Wilson rolled his eyes. "Come on, House," he taunted. "I know you want him."

House shook his head. "Not really."

"But he's cute! Look." Wilson rested his chin on the bear's shoulder and offered up his best lopsided smile. "Even you couldn't say no to this."

House pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, head cocked to one side. "I'm not into plush."

"Think of how snuggly he'd be in bed." Wilson let his dimples show only because he knew that House found them endearing against his better judgment. "And he doesn't hog the covers or try to cuddle you like I do." Maintaining that gap-toothed grin of his, Wilson added a pathetic attempt at sounding like Smoky the Bear. "Please let me be your bear, Greg. I'll be the bestest bear in the whole wide world."

House snorted. "No way. Bear-bear's for babies." A second later, House's whole face shut down and he stared at Wilson with eyes that threatened to saucer.

The wind outside lashed rain against the side of the building hard enough that the slaps and patters carried through the silence. Wilson twitched his head to the side and slowly straightened, the bear slipping a little in his grasp. In the interests of salvaging House's dignity, he elected to pretend that House hadn't slipped up. "Yeah, well this one's only for grown up, cranky diagnosticians with lame, absentee best friends who buy equally lame and pointless gifts in a transparent bid to earn forgiveness."

House's head cocked like a wary dog's, turned a bit to one side to regard Wilson from the corners of his eyes. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot from the withdrawal, leaving the irises to gleam with a brighter blue than was healthy, and having them trained on him pierced Wilson with a poorly defined emotion. House seemed to waver for a second, and then he asked with a hearty dose of suspicion, "He's really for me?"

Hoarse and slightly disturbed now, Wilson replied, "Yeah." He shook the bear at him and House's gaze fell to it. All pretense of humor bled away, and Wilson merely coaxed, "Go on; take him."

A few loaded moment dragged by, and then House slowly reached out to grab it by the ear. He raised his eyes in a series of guarded, covert glances at Wilson's face as Wilson released it, as if waiting for him to take it back. The thing weighed House's arm down and he had to set it on the floor to avoid overbalancing with it; it still nearly reached his waist.

Wilson stood there as House kept on staring blankly down to where his hand clutched a huge, floppy plush ear. "Um. House?"

House shook himself and looked up, his eyes shuttering as Wilson watched. Sullen and grudging, House's gaze scattered off to the side as he grumbled, "Thanks."

"Of course." Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Are you alright?"

"M'fine." He sounded distant, his voice hollow and dim, like words inked into brittle parchment.

Behind House, and rendered completely inconsequential by his lack of notice, Morrow's careful professionalism crumpled at the spectacle of the recently rude and obnoxious House standing there like a little lost boy clutching a teddy bear. She glanced at Cuddy and whispered, "Should we leave?"

Cuddy looked to Wilson, who didn't have an answer at the moment. Wilson drew a preparatory breath, lost it in silence, and then prompted, "House."

House came back to himself with a jerk and several rapid blinks, then shuffled on his good leg to glance at the women behind him. Upon recognizing the helpless pity on their faces, he snarled, "What?"

"Nothing," Cuddy assured him, hands raised to ward him off. If anything, the strange interlude had served to spook all four of them, House included, but Cuddy appeared more shaken than even Wilson felt. After all, he had witnessed House digress like that before, if not in the exact same manner. "Officer Morrow was just...asking about your bank account..."

House straightened, glared at Wilson as if he had done something unforgivable, and flung the bear back toward him. It was too heavy to properly lob across the space between them, but the effect of trying to do so got through. Wilson's jaw worked behind his sealed lips as he stared back at House with owlish eyes, bewildered, and then he let his gaze slink to the side in a jittered rush. He looked at Cuddy, who seemed afraid to draw attention to herself, and then risked looking back at House.

For his part, House merely glared down at the bear and gestured offensively at Wilson. "I don't want it." He screwed his face up in disgust, not necessarily at the gift itself, and added, "It's stupid." Then he stalked back to the exam table with an angry gait that could only have hurt more than his earlier attempts to limp a pacing circuit. If he weren't already flushed with the withdrawal, Wilson imagined he would have seen embarrassment coloring House's face crimson.

Wilson stared after him, his lips parted, at a loss. Then he set his mouth in a straight line, grabbed the bear by the same ear that House had, and dragged it over to the exam table. When House gave up on the attempted pacing and eased himself back onto the table, Wilson set the bear next to him and then ignored both it and the man next to it, stuffing his hands in his pockets as if nothing were going on at all. "Evening, Officer Morrow."

Morrow nodded uncertainly in his direction. "Doctor Wilson."

"I can fill out the paperwork for the bank thing, if it's easier," Wilson offered. "I'm a cosigner on all his accounts."

Morrow glanced at House for permission, who shrugged and then eyed the huge stuffed bear as if it might suddenly start gnawing on his face. "Fine," House muttered. "You can have my bank records." Just for form's sake, House glanced up from under his brows and added, "Balance my checkbook while you're at it. I haven't kept a ledger since I was fifteen."

Morrow appeared at least slightly amused by that. "Accounting services cost extra."

"Hey, don't my tax dollars already pay your salary?"

"Yours, personally? You have about three cents worth of capital stored up so far this month. After all the hours I've dedicated to you, you'll still be paying my last week's salary in 2062."

House grunted and looked down again. The minute rocking resumed, and he didn't stop himself this time.

Morrow tried not to watch him as she told Wilson, "I'll have the paperwork sent to your office. Can our courier leave it with your assistant?"

Wilson nodded. "I'll tell her to set it aside for me."

"Great." Morrow affirmed that again, to herself, and tried not to stare at the incongruity of a surly House glowering at her from beside an adorable bear dressed in Wilson's spare clothes. She blinked incredulously and then shook her head at the whole thing. "Right. Moving on, then. Doctor House, we need to discuss a plan going forward now that we've cleared you of any connection in the meth operation."

That gave House pause, or at least Wilson thought it had until House scrambled to grab the emesis basin next to him and hang his face more or less in it. It turned out to be a false alarm, but House kept the plastic basin in his lap and started rocking again. Wilson rounded the bear to sit beside him, and when House merely shifted his eyes toward Wilson's knee, Wilson rested a hand between his shoulder blades, nothing more. House concentrated on the emesis basin again, but he angled himself toward Wilson in such a way that Wilson didn't think he was aware of doing it.

Morrow waited a few more moments for House to give some indication that he was once again paying attention, but she was a police officer; her time was precious. "Doctor House?"

"No," House insisted. His whole manner had deteriorated into something more like a stubborn child stomping his foot, and Wilson wondered what had caused such a sudden shift in behavior.

"No, what?" Morrow asked.

"No _rehab_, idiot."

"Ah." Morrow rocked back on her heels, her thumbs hooked in her pockets the way Wilson had seen her do with her gun belt at the rest area when they had first met. She wore a shoulder holster at the moment; Wilson could see the straps beneath her light summer jacket. "Doctor House, we're trying to keep you alive and safe. So tell me: what would it take to convince you to stay here?"

"Look," House mumbled. He shifted a shoulder and Wilson realized that he was trying to unobtrusively lean against Wilson's outstretched arm. "You sort of already screwed up the whole protective custody thing."

Wilson slipped his arm lower on House's back, and House fit himself into the curve of his elbow in such a way that Wilson didn't even have grounds to acknowledge it. He did, however, puff up a bit and shoot Cuddy a self-satisfied half-smirk. _Ha. See? He's mine. Choke on it._

"So forgive me," House went on, mumbling as he tried to situate himself comfortably enough to relax a little bit, "if I don't exactly trust your judgment on the whole safe haven thing." He finally found a relatively decent position and sank back against Wilson with a rumbling sigh, eyes closing as he bowed his head and took to absently kneading and rubbing at his bad thigh.

Morrow sucked her lips between her teeth and looked down, crossing her arms in a defensive posture. "It's true that we should have watched the hotel more closely. And I admit that we've wasted time investigating you, but now that we're on the right track – "

"I want to go home."

Morrow's voice dried up and Wilson tightened his arm around House. A weak snuffle came from House's quarter and Wilson felt him tense anew.

Morrow shook her head as if she were nearly defeated. "Doctor House – "

House's cheek twitched. "I'm not a doctor anymore, thanks to you."

A pause to regroup, and then Morrow allowed, "Yes; it's a regrettable situation. We'll get it sorted out."

House made a sound of discomfort that Wilson decided not to call a squeak, then shot death glares at the walls as if they were to blame for the sound. "You do that."

Cuddy rolled her eyes, lifting her head in the process from the hand she had been half hiding behind. "House, be civil."

Wilson sighed, nostrils flaring, and said, "Cuddy, leave him alone. He's miserable."

"I won't have him – "

Wilson felt it when his tenuous self control snapped. Too much pressure, too many things going wrong, too much to feel all at once… "You won't have him _what_? You already got him fired. Do you think that earns any currency with me? Leave him _be_! So what if he's rude? He's earned it by now!"

Morrow blinked, but not at Wilson's outburst. Instead, she pivoted and calmly asked Cuddy, "You fired him? Over a couple of police background checks?"

Wilson tucked his chin and held onto House with his other arm too, aware of how House had cringed the moment he started shouting, if only a little bit. They were both breathing hard now and shivering, but for entirely different reasons.

"No," Cuddy hedged. "The _board_ decided to revoke his tenure."

House murmured a wordless question and Wilson just shook his head, his forehead coming to rest against House's temple. It seemed like House was burning up; he radiated an unhealthy, sticky sort of heat.

Morrow simply repeated, "Over a couple of police background checks?"

"There were extenuating circumstances," Cuddy replied, harried. "I'm trying to get him reinstated."

A vindictive streak worked its way through Wilson's innards. Without lifting his head, he supplied, "It's the gay thing. Apparently, one of the other doctors here is offended by the thought of us humping like rabbits."

House twisted around to gape at him, and Cuddy spluttered a half-coherent denial as the shock on House's features melted into astonished pride.

Morrow shifted to fully face her, every inch the cop. "Is that true?"

"No," Cuddy flatly denied. "It is not true. The fact that Doctor House's tox screen revealed increased levels of opiates – "

Wilson cut in with, " – was a convenient excuse, seeing as how he wasn't on the clock at the time, and the overdose was determined accidental. There were witnesses – other doctors."

House tipped his head in against Wilson's chest and rumbled out Wilson's name as if he were trying to distract him from saying anything more. For his ears only, House murmured, "Wilson, you're shaking."

"I know," Wilson whispered back. He offered no apology for what he'd said.

"It's not worth getting so mad," House pressed, still sotto voce.

Morrow stared hard at Cuddy. "You're aware that firing an employee because of his sexual orientation is illegal, aren't you?"

Wilson nosed House's temple and breathed out. "Yes it is."

"You're gonna give yourself a coronary," House whispered more forcefully. It took a second for Wilson to register the fingers laced around his wrist; House was taking his pulse, which was no doubt way too high at the moment.

"That's not why I fired him," Cuddy rushed to reply to Officer Morrow. "There were complaints – I have a whole file drawer dedicated to – "

Wilson couldn't stop himself from interrupting yet again, and he ignored the way House's fingers tightened on his wrist. "Most of which are from former patients and patients' families who dropped the complaints after House saved their lives. Out of the thirty-some times he's been served with papers in last fifteen years, only three suits ever went forward, and one of them wasn't even his doing – it was Chase's."

"Wilson." House's voice sounded rough and ill-used. When Wilson looked down, he noticed a hint of embarrassment hiding behind the already pink tinge to his cheekbones. "Enough already."

Cuddy was busy bringing up other points, but Wilson found himself stuck on an indrawn breath. The other voices around him faded for a split second and all he could hear was a sort of rush of nothing against his eardrums. He had given himself an anxiety attack; his heart was beating too fast. In retrospect, this was probably inevitable considering the day they'd had. Wilson only marveled at how calm he felt now, in the midst of it. He clenched his hand, the one not attached to the arm wrapped around House. His palm felt clammy, so he wiped it on his pants and looked up.

The dull silence cleared like a receding ocean wave, and once it was gone, Wilson's heartbeat slowed, a deep throb that he could feel reverberating in his chest for several more seconds as the near-attack wore off. House was watching him with a wary eye, the doctor evident in his scrutiny, but when Wilson met his gaze with his usual blandness, House flared his nostrils and appeared to dismiss any concerns he may have been entertaining.

Morrow's dry tone broke into Wilson's distracted reverie as she said to Cuddy, "Oh, so now you fired him because some other doctor doesn't like knowing that he's engaged to another man?"

"No!" Cuddy exclaimed. "No. Officer Morrow, I promise you, that is _not_ – "

"I think it is." Morrow crossed her arms over her chest. On anyone else, it would have been a defensive posture; on Morrow, it looked intimidating.

"No." Cuddy swept her hands through the air at waist level as if she could convince Morrow based solely on the expansiveness of her gestures. "The other doctor filed a harassment complaint – "

"Which I'm guessing has happened before," Morrow broke in, her voice cold. "Doctor House strikes me as the sort of man who gets complained about a lot, and yet this complaint is the one that gets him fired? I'm sensing an unsettling anomaly in the application of penalties for conduct violations."

House burrowed against Wilson, which was surprising considering that they were not alone. He must have really been feeling like crap. "Hey," Wilson murmured. "Everything okay?"

In an undertone, House griped, "I'm bored." Code for miserable, in pain, and no longer in the mood to deal with all of the drama going on in front of him.

Cuddy stammered over an unformed response, and then spluttered, "We're still investigating the complaint. Doctor House's story differed – "

"Then you fired Doctor House over a complaint that hadn't even been verified." Morrow tipped her head to the side and regarded Cuddy as if she were a prevaricating perp. "That's very interesting, Doctor Cuddy."

His voice too low to carry to anyone except House, Wilson offered, "Want me to get rid of them?"

House shrugged and hugged his stomach. "Don't care."

"I – no," Cuddy insisted.

Unsympathetic as he was inclined to be, Wilson had to admire how well she maintained her poise. He snorted, though, and then hid it by scratching at his nose. House had apparently lost interest in the proceedings altogether, because he fidgeted about in Wilson's grasp until he managed to pry his iPod out of his pocket. House started to scroll through the menu, sighed, and then seemed to lose interest in that as well. Wilson squeezed him briefly but offered no further sign of affection, lest House throw him off.

"No, that is not..." Cuddy began. She paused to regroup, and continued in a more professional tone – her press-statement voice. "It's an internal matter, decided upon by the board. There were numerous factors involved including attendance issues, conduct issues – matters going back several years. We didn't reach this decision lightly, but the board and I feel that this is in the best interests of the hospital at this time."

Morrow tapped her foot, clearly unimpressed, and then announced, "I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear you try to justify it." She pointedly turned away from Cuddy to address House, who gazed back at her, unimpressed and irritable. "Doctor House" – she seemed to emphasize his title on purpose this time – "I'll say again that I think it would be a good idea for you to remain in the hospital." Her glance to Cuddy seemed to add, _in spite of her_.

House practically snuggled back into Wilson's arms as if it were the most natural place for him to be. "Way to lay the smack-down on my former boss. You're my new hero."

Morrow tried hard not to smile at that, even if House did deliver the compliment in the surliest manner possible. "Focus, sir. You and Doctor Wilson would be much safer in the rehab wing."

"The answer's still no." And yet he looked just the slightest bit pleased at her reaction. Then his eyes found the ridiculously huge stuffed bear, which still occupied half the exam table, and his whole face clammed back up. If Wilson didn't know any better, he would guess that the bear unsettled him.

Morrow followed his gaze, then gave in to a heavy sigh. "Doctor – "

Finally, the affected arrogance faded, and House sobered like an airplane in free fall. "If you were me, would you really want the people you work with to see you like this?"

Morrow gradually shut her mouth, her gaze steadily trained on House's. After a few moments, she admitted, "No."

House nodded, vindicated, and dropped his gaze.

Then Morrow added, "But I wouldn't want them to see me dead, either."

Wilson looked away for a moment and then cleared his throat. "House, just stay here. At least for tonight. If you still hate it in the morning, I'll take you home, but…" He lifted his gaze to find House's head craned in his direction even though his eyes wandered elsewhere, his haggard face mostly hidden against Wilson's shoulder. "Please."

House struggled visibly between giving into Wilson's soft plea and standing on his pride.

Gently, Cuddy coaxed, "I'll give you anything want, House. Just stay here."

House straightened himself out, pulling away from Wilson in the process, and glanced at her, reluctance and swallowed dignity written in every faintly shivering limb. Wilson let his hand linger on House's right shoulder just to maintain the connection, his left side cold where House had just been leaning. House wasn't giving in because of what Cuddy had said, and Wilson knew it; House's glance at him betrayed that much. "I want a strip tease and a bottle of bourbon."

Cuddy smiled, but sadly. If anything, the familiar old banter made his capitulation that much more bitter. "No, House."

"A carton of cigarettes?"

Wilson answered that one. "Not a chance."

House spared him an irritated glare. "Typical oncologist." Then he went right back to negotiating with Cuddy, however farcical an attempt it was. "Make out with Wilson in the clinic. Voyeurism's number eight on my kink checklist."

Cuddy rolled her eyes, her smile growing lighter at House's usual crass tactics, even if her expression communicated an ephemeral sort of pain because of it. "That one, I'll consider."

Even Wilson felt a soft pang in his stomach; he had once enjoyed listening to House and Cuddy spar like this, and he missed the easy friendship they had all once had, House and Cuddy trading inappropriate barbs while Wilson pretended to mediate. Glancing at House, it seemed like the whole series of arguments that had just taken place were mere figments; he smirked up at Cuddy, almost playful in a depressive kind of way. Mood swing, Wilson thought. A moment of irrational frivolity and lowered inhibitions, courtesy of acute opiate withdrawal.

House wrinkled his nose. "You know what? I changed my mind. Hands off my boy toy."

"How about I unlock the dirty cable channels instead?" Cuddy offered; she may have actually been serious, but Wilson couldn't read her well enough to be sure.

House's mouth lifted on one side. "Deal. And I want ice cream for breakfast."

"Whatever makes you happy."

Like a hopeful puppy, House added, "Slathered all over your bare, bouncy breasts?" His mood was infectious; Wilson actually chuffed under his breath even though his insides continued to simmer with hidden, residual anger.

Cuddy arched an eyebrow. "Uh, no. But I won't stop you from slathering it all over _Wilson's_ bare breasts."

Wilson straightened and nixed the entire notion with a double-handed gesture. "Hey, wait, no. You are not licking things off of my bare body."

House raised a challenging eyebrow. "Not even – ?"

"Don't go there." Wilson stabbed a finger in his direction. "Do not go there." He couldn't know for certain how House had intended to finish that, but he could guess, and a blanket prohibition seemed like the safest recourse.

House pouted. "Party pooper." Wilson would have offered a comeback, but House's leg chose that moment to spasm – no doubt the first in a long line of withdrawal-induced muscle cramps. House grabbed for his thigh and gasped audibly, his whole body tensing at the assault. He could barely manage enough breath to bite out, "Son of a bitch." Cuddy stepped toward him first, but as soon as House noticed the movement in his periphery, his head shot up and he snarled, "Don't fucking touch me!"

"Okay." Cuddy backed off without another thought and Officer Morrow tried to make a discrete exit, her cheeks coloring in sympathetic embarrassment.

Wilson tested the waters with a tentative hand on House's forearm. If House meant to protest, it got lost when the muscles of his thigh clamped down for real. Wilson grabbed him around the middle to keep him from toppling onto the floor when he curled forward with a garbled cry, ignoring the way House's breathing fractured into tiny, punctured exclamations of, "…ow…ow, god…fuck…" every time he exhaled.

Wilson tried to hold him through it, one arm across House's middle and his other hand threaded through the fingers that House had gouged into the quivering muscles of his leg. Wilson could feel the cords of cramped muscles under their joined hands and he winced in sympathy. When House threw his head back and then twisted to the side with a wretched groan, it didn't register that House was about to throw up until Wilson felt the abdominal muscles under his arm clench and then ripple. There was no way that either of them could have held the plastic basin steady for it anyway, and Cuddy had retreated to the other side of the room, her eyes wide, hand over her mouth. Doctor or no, seeing a person in that much pain always hit on a visceral level.

"It's okay," Wilson murmured, tightening his grip as House's stomach heaved. Wilson resigned himself to the inevitability of having his clothes ruined; it was nothing that hadn't happened before. "It's okay; I've got you." He could feel every muscle in House's upper body go taut, chest jumping against Wilson's steadying hand as he fought to suck in a fresh breath, shaking so hard that Wilson pressed his face to House's neck in a futile effort to calm him just the smallest bit. Also, because with his eyes so close to House's hairline, he didn't have to watch the agonized contortions of his face.

House grabbed the arm that Wilson had locked over his chest, perhaps to pry it off, but Wilson refused to loosen his grip and he ended up biting his lip as House's fingernails gouged into his forearm. Cuddy reappeared in front of them then, a trash can in her hands, and by some miracle, House managed not to make a mess of all three of them when his stomach finally overcame his fearsome will power.

Wilson folded over him and held House's head against his shoulder so that he didn't miss the trash can, trying to keep him still as he twisted involuntarily. "Got you," Wilson muttered. "Got you. Just let it go. It's fine."

House wheezed, the smell of vomit accosting the filtered hospital air, and gagged a second time. It almost sounded as if he were choking, but a second wave gripped him and Wilson felt House's stomach hollow with the force of it. A faint sort of wail drifted up on the heels of a partially digested breakfast, cut off by a coughing fit.

When House clenched all over and twisted again, Cuddy followed him with the trash can, but House folded too far into Wilson's arm for her to reach. Her voice nearing shrill, Cuddy asked, "Should I get a muscle relaxant?"

"Not yet," Wilson grunted. House let out a mewlish growl and made a fist over the scar on his thigh. "It should pass on its own." He swiped his hand over the fresh sweat beaded across House's neck, counting the rapid breaths that House exhaled in hot bursts against Wilson's shoulder, then pressed two fingers to his carotid, which stood out in stark relief against his corded neck. Pulse one ten, fluttering a bit but strong. Not so bad, considering.

A series of shudders took House next, and then he sucked in several high-pitched, whistling breaths before he swallowed and licked his lips, holding his breath now, perhaps because the spasm had gotten so bad that he couldn't even manage to exhale. Wilson was about to demand the muscle relaxant after all when a huge rush of air finally left House's lungs, followed by a few gasps and then an unrepentant groan of relief.

Wilson glanced down to catch a glimpse of House's fingers uncurling as he slumped back against Wilson's chest, panting in sharp, shallow bursts, eyes closed over the slackening lines of his face. Wilson rocked back with him, both of them heaving in time with House's labored respirations, arms moving to cinch across House's ribs, holding him up as much as embracing him.

A second later, House calmly announced, "Ow." His voice cracked in the middle of the syllable. He flinched from something that Wilson couldn't feel and then squirmed a bit, probably a residual from the spasm, like an aftershock. It sent House's respirations shuddering off rhythm again, and he dug his head into Wilson's collarbone with a dull whine.

Wilson shut his eyes, his nose pressed to House's neck. "Breathe more deeply. You'll pass out."

Weak but steady, House growled, "Good."

"Oh my god," Cuddy interjected. "Are you okay?"

Wilson looked up at her even as House turned his face into the crook of Wilson's neck to hide his expression from her. Wilson had nearly forgotten she was there. A quick scan revealed Officer Morrow's absence, and then Wilson raised his eyebrows at Cuddy. "What, you thought this would be fun? You've seen him detox before."

"Well," Cuddy stammered. "Yes, but it wasn't…"

House sucked in a drought of air, and without opening his eyes or raising his head, rasped in a tone that ranged all over his vocal range, "How would she know? She always sent me home when it got really bad. Never had to watch."

Wilson ducked his head and watched his own hand smooth down the rampant, sweaty curls over House's ear as if it were a foreign appendage. House stirred at the touch and then swallowed several times in rapid succession. In anticipation of a fresh wave of vomiting, Wilson grabbed the trash can from Cuddy's hands, but House settled a moment later. "False alarm?" He set the used can aside, but within easy reach.

House grunted and then blinked up at Wilson through glazed eyes. "I want my ice cream now. And I want it smeared all over – "

"Whatever you want, House." Wilson thumbed over House's cheekbone and House strained to see it as if its being there confused him. His skin was hot to the touch – feverish and slick, giving the illusion of translucence. He truly looked terrible, and maybe it was that which led Wilson to attempt a grin as he offered, "I'll even let you stick a cherry on the end of my dick if it makes you happy." He didn't even care that Cuddy was standing right there, listening; let her see them together. Let her see that no matter how bad Wilson might be for House, House still wanted him.

House grinned blearily. "Promise?"

Wilson frowned, but replied, "Yeah, promise." House seemed disoriented – too disoriented for a muscle spasm, especially considering the fact that he had seemed perfectly lucid in the immediate aftermath. "Do you remember where we are?"

House gave a sluggish blink, his gaze sliding down Wilson's chest in fits and starts until he found a button that apparently fascinated the hell out of him.

The sound of Cuddy picking up the huge stuffed bear drew Wilson's attention away from the finger that House extended to flick at his shirt. House had knocked the thing to the floor during the spasm, not that Wilson had bothered to notice until now. The sheer size of the bear protruding from Cuddy's arms made it look as if she should fall over. Wilson watched her set it on a chair in the corner of the room, and then she met his concerned gaze.

Wilson licked his lips and nodded at the call button. "We need to get him hooked up to an EEG. And get Foreman back here. I think he's having another partial seizure."

For split second, Cuddy's face went blank, and then she narrowed her eyes. "You took his pulse just now, didn't you?"

Wilson copied her expression, brow furrowed. "Yeah – borderline tachycardic. Why? He's fine now."

"Arhythmia?"

Wilson's frown took over the majority of his face. "Slight. But that's normal for someone in severe pain."

"Yeah," Cuddy barked with a dismissive wave. "But what if it precipitated the seizure?"

Wilson's forehead smoothed as it dawned on him. "You think they're being caused by a cardiac arrhythmia?" He turned pensive again as he ran through a few of the incidents – events leading up to flashbacks, which were probably seizures in and of themselves, as well as the incident on the sidewalk. House had been upset about something before each one – arguing with Wilson or trying to avoid certain topics – things that would speed up his heart rate. Before the grand mal in House's bedroom, House had been at a ten on the pain scale, tachycardic and on the verge of passing out. Even the more recent incident in the shower, when House had broken off to swallow through an automatism, could fit; sexual acts resulted in increased heart rates. Hell, Wilson could even chalk up the birthday incident to a partial seizure; he simply hadn't known to look for something medically wrong at the time.

If House had an underlying heart condition of some sort, then the increased heart rate could reveal an intermittent arrhythmia. The only incident that didn't fit was the flashback that Wilson had woken up to the night before, but any number of things could have served to sufficiently speed up House's heart rate. Plus, the very nature of an intermittent cardiac arrhythmia meant that on occasion, it simply happened without provocation.

Then Wilson's mind grazed over the infarction, and all of his injunctions to House about an undiagnosed clotting disorder. After that, the thought process felt inevitable. House was a chronic Vicodin user, which caused a number of side effects like weight loss and diarrhea, fatigue and occasional shortness of breath due to suppression of the respiratory system. He didn't exercise much because too much exertion made his leg hurt, and left him feeling sick and dizzy, ostensibly from the pain, but Wilson had observed House's pacing fits more than often enough to see a possible intolerance for strenuous activity that had nothing to do with the weakened leg.

The thing was, all of that could be written off as a combination of being partially crippled, and of being a pain patient who took copious amounts of Vicodin on a daily basis. But what if they weren't actually side effects? What if House's Vicodin use had been masking actual symptoms for the past ten years? Symptoms that had started with the clot in his leg?

Wilson blinked, his eyes wide under wobbling eyebrows. "I'm an idiot."

House roused himself enough to grunt, "Duh."

"What?" Cuddy demanded. "I know that look. What are you thinking?"

Wilson raised a hand and twiddled his fingers in the air as if he could conjure the end of the thought process. It was right there; he could feel it. Was this what House went through on every patient? That frustrating sense that he _knew_ the damn answer, but he couldn't get to it because he didn't have the right information? "Uh. Bhu…mmm, I know it. Hang on." Wilson shut his eyes and went through the whole chain of reasoning again. He just needed his brain to keep going past the mental wall that blocked off the answer. "Clot. Blood clots. Intermittent arrhythmia. Weight loss. Diarrhea. Nausea. Shortness of breath. Exercise intolerance… Seizure disorder… The seizures are a blind," Wilson declared. "The arrhythmia's the key. It's causing everything, and we missed it because of the Vicodin." To himself, Wilson muttered, "Pulse one ten…fluttering. Atrial fibrillation." Wilson blinked his eyes open and looked up at Cuddy. "Atrial fibrillation. It causes the blood to pool and clot, often leading to strokes. An infarction in the thigh would be an unusual presentation, but it still works. And certain types of seizures are known to be caused, on occasion, by fluctuations in heart rate – temporal lobe seizures among them."

Cuddy started to shake her head, but Wilson kept speaking over her silent objections.

"I remember Foreman saying that House was probably prone to seizure disorders even before the bus crash – his personality type indicates a susceptibility. The leaps of logic, the way he acts sometimes, even the intelligence. Some studies show a correlation between certain personality traits and temporal lobe abnormalities. The seizures he's been having originate in the right temporal lobe."

Cuddy shook her head, dubious. "But the skull fracture explains that."

"Does it?" Wilson asked rhetorically. "It may explain the recent severity, it may even have caused the emergence of recognizable epileptiform activity, but it doesn't explain the timeline. The bus crash shook him up – he was having mild anxiety attacks, he got a prescription for Xanax…it didn't work. So he came to you for Depakote, an anticonvulsant, and he felt better for a while. Then he started messing with his pain regimen, switched medications – they weren't working as well as the Vicodin. He experienced at least five episodes of severe breakthrough pain from January to March. In March, he supposedly overdosed on Fentanyl and suffered a grand mal seizure." Wilson framed his point between thumb and forefinger. "But we couldn't prove it was an overdose. We could infer and assume, based on the evidence we had at the time, but we couldn't prove it because we never got him to the hospital for a blood test."

Cuddy nodded, pensive grooves running through her forehead. "The night of the blizzard."

"Right!" Wilson wriggled himself into a position that wouldn't leave his ass cheeks numb and glanced down to find House watching him with his usual clarity, only mildly dulled by the withdrawal. "You didn't overdose," Wilson affirmed. "The pain caused an irregular heart rhythm, and that caused the seizure. After the shooting, your medication was all over the place. You missed doses, you were stressed out and anxious, I wasn't helping matters, and you stopped taking gabapentin, which reduced your seizure threshold even more. It makes perfect sense. All of it could be explained by an atrial fibrillation." Wilson grinned, all teeth and eager glee. "It's what caused your infarction, it's _been_ causing problems ever since; we were just too obsessed with your Vicodin use to listen whenever you tried to tell us that it wasn't the pills. House, it fits!" Then his smile wavered. "Right?"

House stared at him in that unnerving way of his, ice blue eyes that could read every micro-expression in every line of an otherwise inscrutable face, as if he could see right through a person, dissect them down to their constituent parts and render them meaningless. "Do you even realize what you just said?"

Wilson blinked a few times, his face falling so profoundly that he could feel it. The whole theory shined in his head like a sparkly new Mustang convertible, and the thought that it was stupid, that House would shred it the way he ripped apart his fellows' ideas, came near to crushing him. "It makes sense, doesn't it?"

House swallowed and Wilson could hear it when he peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "I love you."

Of all the things… Wilson blinked, face blank, his head ticking to the side in an aborted shake. It was such a nonsequitor that all he could say back was, "So it _does_ make sense?"

House scowled, but there was no malice to it. "You moron."

Wilson frowned. "I can't tell if you're reassuring me or not."

"I just gushed my unfettered feelings at you! What other reassurance do you need?"

"I'm not sure," Wilson deadpanned. "See, this has never happened before, so I'm a little confused as to how I should take your declaration."

House merely looked at him, his face set in impatient expectation.

"Um." Wilson glanced up and started to find Cuddy still standing beside the gigantic teddy bear. He looked back at House and said, "I love you too?"

"Oh, wow!" House shoved at him and Wilson caught himself with a hand on the crinkly paper. "And to think I ever doubted the force of your convictions."

Wilson pressed his mouth into a wry grimace, eyes seeking the ceiling. "Your timing could be better."

"No it couldn't."

"How do you figure?"

House hesitated, glanced in Cuddy's direction, and then dismissed her presence simply by failing to care that she occupied the room. "You really don't realize what you said, do you."

Wilson's shoulders went up of their own accord, his hands spreads in helpless solicitude. "I thought I diagnosed you. I could be wrong, though." He made a squicky face and added, "All that medical jargon."

From House's expression, he couldn't quite come to terms with Wilson's denseness, but it didn't last long. His features softened and a rare, tiny smile emerged on his face. _The _smile. Wilson's smile. "Hmph." House looked down and used one finger to trace an inscrutable pattern on his pant leg.

Wilson blinked at him, then shook his head. "No, seriously. What is it?"

"Nothing." House flattened his hand over the resection site on his thigh and peered into the middle distance.

"That's not nothing," Wilson pressed. "You're…" He flapped his hands around and then settled on, "…glowy."

House raised both eyebrows and said, "Yup," popping his lips on the 'p.'

Wilson practically bored holes in the side of House's head, he stared so hard. "I'm serious."

"I know."

"No, really."

"Mm-hm."

"House! Come on; quit being cryptic."

House shook his head. "Nuh-uh."

Wilson began to think that perhaps that secret little smile was more infuriating than anything else. "You're an ass."

"If you say so."

"Tell me!"

"Wilson. If I have to explain it, then – "

"Do _not_ pull the girl line on me."

House shot him a smug look, obviously trying not to smile again.

"Okay, fine." Wilson held up his hands in surrender. "Keep your damn secrets."

"I intend to."

Wilson fumed in impotent ignorance. "Jerk."

"You're cute when you're pissy."

"Bite me."

--tbc


End file.
